
oass-P ri*a±z 

Book jV& 



BEAUTIES OF STERNE ; ^ 

INCtVDING MANS OF HIS «*» £' 

LETTERS AND SERMONS, 



PATHETIC TALES, 
HUMOROUS DESCRIPTIONS, 

AND 

I 

MOST DISTINGUISHED OBSERVATIONS ON LIFE 



Dear Sensibility ! source inexhausted of all that's precious 
in our joys, or costly in our sorrows ! thou chainest thy 
martyr down upon his bed of straw— and 'tis ehou who 
liftest him up to Heaven !— ■Eternal fountain of our 
feelings ! 'tis here I trace thee. S. Journey, p. 226. 



boston : 4 

PUBLISHED BY ANDREWS AND CUMMINGS? 

NO. I, CORNHILL. . 



Greenough 55 s Stebbins, Printers. 
1807. 



PREFACE. 



THE very many editions that have 
already passed the press, of the " Beau- 
ties of Sterne," sufficiently evince the 
sentiments of the public at large upon 
the propriety of such a work, and re- 
move those objections which at first 
might have been supposed to exist — it 
therefore only remains to point out the 
amendments the world has a right to 
look for in the present edition. 

It has been a matter of much general 
complaint, that the selections hitherto 
made were of rather too confined a 
cast, and that, contrary to the original, 
the utile and the duke were not suffi- 
ciently blended, or in equal quantities. 
That as the work was intended both for 
the recreation of our riper years, and 
the improvement of the more juvenile 
mind, it dragged on rather too serious a 
system of grave morality, unmixed with 



4 PREFACE. 

those sprightlier sallies of fancy, which 
the great Original knew so judiciously 
and equally to scatter in our way. 

It has been likewise observed, that 
the dread of offending the ear of Chas- 
tity, so laudable in itself, has, in the 
present case, been carried to an excess, 
thereby depriving us of many most 
laughable scenes, though in themselves 
totally free from any objections on the 
score of indelicacy— and that, upon the 
whole, the past compilers of Sterne, 
keeping their eye rather upon his mo* 
rality than his humour — upon h\s judg- 
ment than his wit^ had likened the work 
to his Cane Chait\ deprived of the one of 
its knobs — incomplete and un uniform. 
—Giving us rather those plants which 
may be found in all climates and in ev- 
ery soil, than those which are more es* 
timable, because more rare, and which 
have been brought to perfection in but 
a very few indeed such skilful hands as 
his. 

To obviate in some measure those 
founded objections, has been the object 
of the present edition, in which the 



PREFACE. 6 

reader, whether of a grave or gay com- 
plexion, will find an equal attention 
paid him — the sprightly reader will find, 
now for the first time, several scenes of 
such exquisite fancy — such true Shan- 
dean colouring, that he will be aston- 
ished they could be overlooked by any 
who professed to enumerate the " Beau- 
ties of Sterne/ 5 -— Such are, Mr. Shandy's 
Beds of Justice— Dr. Slop and Susan- 
nah — -Parson Yorick's Horse — and ma- 
ny other pictures of the same tint. — 
The heart of Sensibility will receive a 
melancholy pleasure in the contempla- 
tion of Yorick's untimelv fate ; — and 
the mind, in search of those duties we 
owe to God and Man, will receive fresh 
incentives to persevere in well-doing, 
from that most excellent discourse upon 
Charity — " The Case of Elijah and the 

Widow of Zarephath considered." 

A few of his most admired Letters are 
also now added. 

Thus will the reader perceive, that as 

the mine whence this gem is extracted 

is by far the richest this country has ever 

produced, no pains have been spared to 

A2 



* PREFACE. 

render it proportionably superior in bril- 
liancy and sterling value. 

To promote the interests of Virtue 
by exhibiting her in her most pleasing 
attitudes — to induce, if possible, man- 
kind to pursue that road which alone 
leads to true happiness, is the warmest 
wish of the Editor's heart ; and he firm- 
ly believes, there is no mode so effec- 
tual, as strewing such flowers as these 
in their way — for impenetrable must 
that heart be which cannot be softened 
by so much good sense, enlivened with 
so much good humour. 



|Cf "It is necessary to acquaint the read' 
«r f that the references in this volume 
are marked from thq last elegant Lon- 
don edition of Mr. Sterne's works in 
fen volumes. 



MEMOIRS 

OF THE 

LIFE AND FAMILY 

OF THE LATE 

REV. MR. LAURENCE STERNE. 

WRITTEN BY HIMSELF, 



ROGER STERNE (grandson to Arch- 
bishop Sterne), Lieutenant in Handaside's regi- 
ment, was married to Agnes Hebert, widow of a 
captain of a good family : her family-name was ( I 
believe) Nuttle — though, upon recollection, that 
was the name of her father-in-law, who was a not- 
ed sutler in Flanders, in Queen Ann's wars, where 
my father married his wife's daughter (N. B. he 
was in debt to him), which was in September 25, 
1711, Old Style.— This Nuttle had a son by 
my grandmother — a fine person of a man, but a 
graceless whelp — what became of him I know not 
— The family (if any left), live now at Clonmel, 
in the South of Ireland, at which town I was born 
November 24, 1713, a few days after my mother 
arrived from Dunkirk. — My birth-day was omin- 
ous to my poor father, who was, the day after our 
arrival, with many other brave officers, breke. and 



I 8 

$?ent adrift into the wide world with a wife and two 
children — the elder of which was Mary ; she was 
born at Lisle in French Flanders, July the tenth, 
one thousand seven hundred and twelve, Old Style, 
— This child was most unfortunate — she married 
one Weemans, in Dublin — who used her most un* 
mercifully — spent his substance, became a bank- 
rupt, and left my poor sister to shift for herself, — 
which she was able to do but for a few months, 
for she went to a friend's house in the country, 
and died of a broken heart. She was a most beau- 
tiful woman — of a fine figure, and deserved a bet- 
ter fate. — The regiment in which my father serv- 
ed, being broke, he left Ireland as soon as I was 
able to be carried, with the rest of his family, and 
came to the family seat at Elvington, near York, 
where his mother lived. She was daughter to Sir 
George Jaques, and an heiress. There we so*, 
journed for above ten months, when the regiment 
w r as established, and our household decamped with 
bag and baggage for Dublin — within a month of 
our arrival, my father left us, being ordered to 
Exeter, where, in a sad winter, my mother and 
her two children followed him, travelling from 
Liverpool by land to Plymouth, (Melancholy 
description of this journey not necessary to be 
transmitted here. ) In twelve months we were all 
sent back to Dublin. — My mother, with three of 
us (for she laid in at Plymouth of a boy, Joram), 
took ship at Bristol, for Ireland, and had a narrow 
escape from being cast away, by a leak springing 
up in the vessel. At length, after many perils and 
struggles, we got to Dublin. There my father 



took a large house, furnished it, and in a year and 
a halPs time spent a great deal of money. — In the 
year one thousand seven hundred and nineteen, all 
unhing'd again ; the regiment was ordered, with 
many others, to the Isle of Wight, in order to 
embark for Spain, in the Vigo expedition. We 
accompanied the regiment, and were driven into 
Milford Haven, but landed at Bristol, from thence 
by land to Plymouth again, and to the Isle of 
Wight-— where I remember we stayed encamped 
some time before the embarkation of the troops — » 
(in this expedition from Bristol to Hampshire we 
lost poor Joram — a pretty boy, four years old, of 
the small-pox) — my mother, sister, and myself, re- 
mained at the Isle of Wight during the Vigo ex- 
pedition, and until the regiment had got back to 
Wicklow in Ireland, from whence my father sent 
for us. We had poor Joram's loss supplied during 
our stay in the Isle of Wight, by the birth of a 
girl, Anne, born September the twenty-third, one 
thousand seven hundred and nineteen. — This pret- 
ty blossom fell at the age of three years, in the 
barracks of Dublin— -she was, as I well remember, 
of a fine delicate frame, not made to last long, as 
were most of my father's babes. We embarked 
for Dublin, and had all been cast away by a most 
violent storm, but, through the intercessions of my 
mother, the captain was prevailed upon to turn 
back into Wales, where we stayed a month, and 
at length got into Dublin, and travelled by land to 
Wicklow, where my father had for some weeks 
given us over for lost. — We lived in the barracks 
at Wicklow one year (one thousand seven hundred 



10 

and twenty), when Devijeher (so called after Co. 
lonel Devijeher) was born ; from thence we de- 
camped to stay half a year with Mr. Featherston, 
a clergyman, about seven miles from Wicklow, 
who being a relation of my mother's, invited us to 
his parsonage, at Animo. — It was in this parish, 
during our stay, that I had that wonderful escape 
in falling through a mill-race whilst the mill was 
going, and of being taken up unhurt — the story is 
incredible, but known for truth in all that part of 
Ireland — where hundreds of the common people 
flocked to see me. — From hence we followed the 
regiment to Dublin, where we lay in the barracks 
a year. In this year, one thousand seven hundred 
and twenty-one, I learned to write, &c. The 
regiment was ordered in twenty-two to Carrickfer- 
gus, in the north of Ireland ; we all decamped, 
but got no further than Drogheda, thence ordered 
to Mullengar, forty miles west, where by Provi- 
dence we stumbled upon a kind relation, a collat- 
eral descendant from Archbishop Sterne, who took 
us all to his castle, and kindly entertained us for 
a year — and sent us to the regiment at Carrickfer- 
gus, loaded with kindnesses, &c. — a most rueful* 
and tedious journey had we all, in March, to Car- 
rickfergus, where we arrived in six or seven days — 
little Devijeher here died ; he was three years old 
— he had been left behind at nurse at a farm-house 
near Wicklow, but was fetch'd to us by my father. 
The summer after — another child was sent to fill 
his place, Susan ; this babe too left us behind in 
this weary journey — The autumn of that year, or 
the spring afterward (I forget which) my father 



11 

got leave of his colonel to fix me at school — -which 
he did near Halifax, with an able master ; with 
whom I staid some time, till by God's care of me, 
my cousin Sterne, of Elvington, became a father 
to me, and sent me to the university, &c. &c. To 
pursue the thread of our story, my father's regi- 
ment was the year after ordered to Londonderry, 
where another sister was brought forth, Catherine, 
still living, but most unhappily estranged from me 
by my uncle's wickedness, and her own folly — 
from this station the regiment was sent to defend 
Gibraltar, at the siege, where my father was run 
through the body by Captain Phillips, in a duel 
(the quarrel began about a goose), with much 
difficulty he survived — though with a partial con- 
stitution, which was not able to withstand the 
hardships it was put to — for he was sent to Ja- 
maica, where he soon fell by the country fever, 
which took away his senses first, and made a child 
of him, and then, in a month or two, walking about 
continually without complaining, till the moment 
he sat down in an arm chair, and breathed his last 
— which was at Port Antonio, on the north of the 
island. — My father was a little smart man, — active 
to the last degree, in all exercises — most patient of 
fatigue and disappointments, of which it pleased 
God to give him full measure — he was in his tem- 
per somewhat rapid and hasty — but of a kindly, 
sweet disposition, void of all design ; and so inno- 
cent in his own intentions, that he suspected no 
one : so that you might have cheated him ten 
times in a day, if nine had not been sufficient for 
your purpose- — my poor father died March, 1731 



12 

—I remained at Halifax till about the latter end 
of the year, and cannot omit mentioning this anec- 
dote of myself, and schoolmaster — He had the 
ceiling of the schoolroom new white-washed — the 
ladder remained there — I one unlucky day mount- 
ed it, and wrote with a brush, in large capital let- 
ters, LAU. STERNE, for which the usher se- 
verely whipped me. My master was very much 
hurt at this, and said, before me, that never should 
that name be effaced, for I was a boy of genius, 
and he was sure I should come to preferment — - 
this expression made me forget the stripes I had 
received. In the year thirty -two* my cousin sent 
me to the university, where I staid some time. 
'Twas there that I commenced a friendship with 
Mr. H . . » which has been most lasting on both 
sides — I then came to York, and my uncle got me 
the living of Sutton — and at York I became ac- 
quainted with your mother, and courted her for 
two years — she owned she liked me, but thought 
herself not rich enough, or me too poor, to be 

joined together — she went to her sister's in S *•, 

and I wrote to her often — I believe then she was 
partly determined to have me, but would not say 
so — at her return she fell into a consumption— 
and one evening that I was sitting by her with an 
almost broken heart to see her so ill, she said, 

* He was admitted of Jesus College, in the university 
*>f Cambridge, 6th July, 1733, under the tuition of Mr. 
Cannon. 

Matriculated 29th March, 1735. 

Admitted to the degree of B. A, in January, 1736. 

- - M. A. at the Commencement, 1740, 



13 

" My dear Laurey, I can never be yours, for 1 
verily believe I have not long to live — but I have 
left you every shilling of my fortune ;" — upon 
that she shewed me her will — this generosity 
overpowered me. It pleased God that she re- 
covered, and I married her in the year 1741. 
'*My uncle and myself were then upon very good 
terms, for he soon got me the Prebendary of York 
— but he quarrelled with me afterwards, because 
I w r ould not write paragraphs in the news-pa- 
pers — though he was a party-man, I was not, and 
detested such dirty work : thinking it beneath 
me — from that period, f he became my bitterest 
enemy. By my wife's means I got the living of 

Stillington a friend of her's in the South had 

promised her, that if she married a clergyman in 
Yorkshire, when the living became vacant, he 
would make her a compliment of it. I remained 
near twenty years at Sutton, doing duty at both 
places — I had then very good health. Books, 
J painting, fiddling, and shooting, were my 
amusements ; as to the Squire of the parish, I 
cannot say we were upon a very friendly footing — 

* Jaques Sterne, L.L. D. He was Prebendary of Dur- 
ham, Canon, Residentiary, Precentor and Prebendary of 
York, Rector of Rise, and Rector of Hornsea cum Riston, 
both in the East Riding of the county of York. He died 
June 9, 1759. 

f It hath however been insinuated, that he for some 
time wrote a periodical electioneering paper at York, in 
' defence of the Whig interest. Monthly fievtezu, vol. 53, 
p. 344. 

i A specimen of Mr. Sterne's abilities in the art of de- 
signing-, mav be seen in Mr. WodhuFs ooem-, 8vo< 1 772- 
B 



14 

but at Stillington, the family of the C s 

shewed us every kindness — 'twas most truly 
agreeable to be within a mile and a half of an 
amiable family, who were ever cordial friends. In 
the year 1760, I took a house at York for your 
mother and yourself, and went up to London to 
publish* my two first volumes of Shandy.f In 
that year Lord Falconbridge presented me with 
the curacy of Coxwould — a sweet retirement in 
comparison of Sutton. In sixty -two I went to 
France, before the peace was concluded, and you 
both followed me. I left you both in France, 
and in two years after, I went to Italy for the 
recovery of my health — and when I called upon 

* The first edition was in the preceding year at York. 

f The following is the order in which Mr. Sterne's pub- 
lications appeared : 

1747. The cafe of Elijah and the widow of Zarephath 
considered : A charity-sermon preached on Good-Friday, 
April 17, 1747, for the support of two charity-schools hi 
York. 

1750. The Abuses of Conscience : Set forth in a ser- 
mon preached in the cathedral church of St. Peter's, York, 
at the summer assizes, before the Hon. Mr. Baron Clive, 
and the lion. Mr. Baron Smythe, on Sunday, July 29, 
1750. 

1759. Vol. 1 and 2 of Tristram Shandy. 

1760. Vol. 1 and 2 of Sermons. 

1761. Vol. 3 and 4 of Tristram Shandy. 

1762. Vol. 5 and 6 of Tristram Shandy. 

1765. Vol. 7 and 8 of Tristram Shandy. 

1766. Vol. 3 and 4 of Sermons. 

1767. Vol. 9 of Tristram Shandy. 

1768. The Sentimental Journey. 

The remainder of his works were published after his 
death. 



15 

you, I tried to engage your mother to return to 
England with me, — she* and yourself are at 
length come — and I have the inexpressible joy of 
seeing my girl every thing I wished her. 

/ have set down these particulars relating to my 
family , and self, for my Lydia, in case hereafter she 
might have a curiosity, or kinder motive to know 
them. 



AS Mr. Sterne, in the foregoing narrative, 
hath brought down the account of himself until 
within a few months of his death, it remains only 
to mention that he left York about the end of the 
year 1767? and came to London in order to pub- 
lish The Sentimental Journey, which he had written 
during the preceding summer at his favourite liv- 
ing at Coxwould. His health had been for some 
time declining, but he continued to visit his friends, 
and retained his usual flow of spirits. In Februa- 
ry, 1768, he began to perceive the approaches of 
death, and with the concern of a good man, and 
the solicitude of an affectionate parent, devoted his 
attention to the future welfare of his daughter. 
His letters at this period reflect so much credit to 
his character, that it is to be lamented some oth- 
ers in the collection are not permitted to see the 
light. After a short struggle with his disorder, 
his debilitated and worn out frame submitted to 
fate on the 18th day of March, 1768, at his lodg- 
ings in Bond-street. He was buried at the new 

* From this passage it appears that the present account 
of Mr. Sterne's Life and Family was written about six 
months only before his death. 



16 

burying-ground, belonging to the parish of St. 
George, Hanover square, on the 22d of the same 
month, in the most private mariner ; and hath since 
been indebted to strangers for a monument very- 
unworthy of his memory ; on which the following 
lines are inscribed : 

^ Near to this Place 

Lies the Body of 

The Reverend Laurence Sterne, A. M. 

Died September 13th, 1768,* 

Aged 53 Years. 
' Ah I molliter ossa quiescaniS 

\i a sound Head, warm Heart, and Breast humane, 
Unsullied Worth, and Soul without a Stain ; 
If mental Powers could ever justly claim 
The well-won Tribute of immortal Fame, 
Sterne was the Man, who, with gigantic Stride, 
Mowed down luxuriant Follies far and wide. 
Yet what, though keenest Knowledge of Mankind 
Unseal'd to him the Springs that move the Mind ; 
What did it cost him ? ridicul'd, ahus'd, 
By Fools insulted, and by Prudes accus'd. 
In his, mild Reader, view thy future Fate, 
Like him despise, what 'twere a Sin to hate. 

This monumental stone was erected by two 
brother maso us ; for although he did not live to 
be a member of their society, yet as his all incom- 
parable performances evidently prove him to have 
acted by rule and square, they rejoice in this op- 
portunity of perpetuating his high and irreproach- 
able character to after ages. W. & S." 

* It is scarcely necessary to observe that this date is er- 
roneous. 



THE BEAUTIES OF STERNE. 



ON WRITING. 

WRITING, when properly managed (as 
you may be sure I think mine is,) is but a differ- 
ent name for conversation. As no one, who 
knows what he is about in good company, would 
venture to talk all ; — so no author, who under- 
stands the just boundaries of decorum and good- 
breeding, would presume to think all : The truest 
respect which you can pay to the reader's under- 
standing, is to halve this matter amicably, and 
leave him something to imagine, in his turn, as 
well as yourself. 

For my own part, I am eternally paying him 
compliments of this kind, and do all that lies in my 
power to keep his imagination as busy as my own. 



SPECIMENS OF 

STERNE's EPISTOLARY WRITING, 

OR, FAMILIAR LETTERS. 
TO MY WITTY WIDOW, MRS. F . 

madam, Cox would, Aug. 3, 1760. 

WHEN a man's brains are as dry as a 
squeez'd Orange — and he feels he has no more 
conceit in him than a mallet, 'tis in vain to think 
B2 



18 

of sitting down, and writing a letter to a lady of 
your wit, unless in the honest John-Trot-Stile of, 
yours of the fifteenth instant came safe to hand^ &c. 
which, by the bye, looks like a letter of business ; 
and you know very well, from the first letter I 
had the honour to write to you, I am a man of 
no business at all. This vile plight I found my 

genius in was the reason I have told Mr. 

I would not write to you till the next post — - 
hoping by that time to get some recruit, at least 
of vivacity, if not wit, to set out with ; — but 
upon second thoughts, thinking a bad letter in 
season — to be better than a good one out of it — 
this scrawl is the consequence, which, if you will 
burn the moment you get it — I promise to send 
you a fine set essay in the style of your female epis- 
tolizers, cut and trimm'd at all points. — God 
defend me from such, who never yet knew what 
it was to say or write one premeditated word in 
my whole life — for this reason I send you with 
pleasure, because wrote with the careless irregu- 
larity of an easy heart. Who told you, Gar- 
rick wrote the medley for Beard ?- — 'Twas wrote 
in his house, however, and before I left town. — 
I deny it — I was not lost two days before I left 
town.. — I was lost all the time I was there, and 
never found till I got to this Shandy-castle of 
mine. — Next winter I intend to sojourn amongst 
you with more decorum, and will neither be lost 
nor found any where. 

Now, I wish to God I was at your elbow — I 
have just finished one volume of Shandy, and I 
want to read it to some one who I know can taste 



19 

and relish humour — this, by the way, is a little 
impudent in me — for I take the thing for grant- 
ed, which their high mightinesses the world have 
yet to determine — but I mean no such thing — I 
could wish only to have your opinion — shall I, in 
truth, give you mine ? — I dare not — but I will ; 
provided you keep it to yourself — know then, 
that I think there is more laughable humour, — . 
with equal degree of Cervantic satire — if not more 
than in the last— but we are bad judges of the 
merit of our children. 

I return you a thousand thanks for your friend* 
ly congratulations upon my habitation — and I 
will take care you shall never wish me but well,, 
for I am, Madam, 

With great esteem and truth, 
Your most obliged, 

L. Sterne. 

P. S. I have wrote this so vilely and ; so pre- 
cipitately, I fear you must carry it to a decypher- 
er — I beg you'll do me the honour to write — 
otherwise you draw me in, instead of Mr. - 
drawing you into a scrape — for I should sorrow 
to have a taste of so agreeable a correspondent— 
and no more* 

Adieu. 



TO MR. GARRICK. 

Bath, April 6, 1765. 
I SCALP you !— my dear Garrick ! 
my dear friend ! — foul befal the man who hurts a 



20 

hair of your head ! — and so full was I of that 
very sentiment, that my letter had not been put 
into the post-office ten minutes, before my heart 
smote me ; and I sent to recal it — but failed— 
You are sadly to blame, Shandy ! for this, quoth 
I, leaning with my head on my hand, as I re- 
criminated upon my false delicacy in the affair. 
Garrick's nerves (if he has any left) are as fine 
and delicately spun as thy own — his sentiments as 
honest and friendly — thou knowest, Shandy, that 
he loves thee — why wilt thou hazard him a mo- 
ment's pain ? Puppy ! fool, coxcomb, jack-ass, 
&c. &c. — and so I balanced the account to your 
favour, before I received it drawn up in your way 
—I say your way — for it is not stated so much to 
your honour and credit, as I had passed the ac- 
count before — for it was a most lamentable truth, 
that 1 never received one of the letters your 

friendship meant me, except whilst in Paris 

Oh ! how I congratulate you for the anxiety the 
world has, and continues to be under, for 
your return. — Return, return to the few who 
love you, and the thousands who admire you. — 
The moment you set your foot upon your stage — 
mark ! I tell it you — by some magic, irresisted 
power, every fibre about your heart shall vibrate 
afresh, and as strongly and feelingly as ever — 
Nature, with glory at her back, will light up the 
torch within you — and there is enough of it left, 
to heat and enlighten the world these many, many, 
many years. 

Heaven be praised ! (I utter it from my soul) 
that your lady, and my Minerva, is in a condition 



21 

to walk to Windsor — fall rapturously will I lead 
the graceful pilgrim to the temple, where I will 
sacrifice with the purest incense to her-— hut you 
may worship with me or not — '"twill make no 
difference either in the truth or warmth of my 
devotion — still (after all I have seen) I still main*- 
tain her peerless. 

Powel ! good Heaven ! — give me some one 
with less smoke and more fire — There are who, 
like the Pharisees, still think they shall be heard 
for much speaking-— Come — come away, my dear 
Garrick, and teach us another lesson. 

Adieu ! — I love you dearly — and your lady 
better — not hobbihorsically — but most sentimen- 
tally and affectionately— -for I am yours (that is, 

if you never say another word about — ) with 

all the sentiments of love and friendship you de- 
serve from me. 

L. Sterne, 



TO MR. W. 

Coxwould, May 23, 1765. 
AT this moment I am sitting in my sum- 
mer-house with my head and heart full, not of my 
uncle Toby's amours with the widow Wadman, 
but my sermons — and your letter has drawn me 
out of a pensive mood — the spirit of it pleaseth me 
~~but in this solitude, what can I tell or write to 
you but about myself — I am glad you are in love 
— 'twill cure you at least of the spleen, which has 
a bad effect on both man and woman 1 myself 



to 

must ever have some Dulcinea in my head — -It 
harmonizes the soul— and in those cases I first 
endeavour to make the lady believe so, or rather I 
begin first to make myself believe that I am in 
love — but I carry on my affairs quite in the French 
way — u P amour (say they) n'est rien sans senti- 
ment." — Now, notwithstanding they make such a 
pother about the word, they have no precise idea 
annexed to it — And so much for that same sub- 
ject called love. 1 must tell you how I have 

just treated a French gentleman of fortune in 

France, who took a liking to my daughter 

Without any ceremony (having got a letter from 
my wife's banker) he wrote me word that he was 
in love with my daughter, and desired to know 
what fortune I would give her at present, and how 
much at my death — by the bye, I think there 
was very little sentiment on his side — My answer 
was, " Sir, I shall give her ten thousand pounds 
the day of marriage my calculation is as fol- 
lows —she is not eighteen, you are sixty-two— 

there goes five thousand pounds- — then, Sir, you 
at least think her not ugly she has many ac- 
complishments, speaks Italian, French, plays upon 
the guitar, and as I fear you play upon no instru- 
ment whatever, I think you will be happy to take 
her at my terms ; so here finishes the account of 

the ten thousand pounds." 1 do not suppose 

but he will take this as I mean, that is — a flat re- 
fusal. 1 have had a parsonage house burnt 

down by the carelsessness of my curate's wife — as 
soon as I can I must rebuild it, I trow — but I 
lack the means at present — yet I am never hap- 



23 

pier than when I have not a shilling in my pocket" 
— for when I have I can never call it my own.— 
Adieu, my dear friend — may you enjoy better 
health than me, tho' not better spirits, for that is 
impossible. Yours, sincerely, 

My compliments to the Col. L. Sterne. 



FROM IGNATIUS SANCHO* TO MR. 
STERNE. 

REVEREND SIR, [1766.] 

IT would be an insult on your humanity 
(or perhaps look like it) to apologize for the 
liberty I am taking — I am one of those people 
whom the vulgar and illiberal call negroes. — The 
first part of my life was rather unlucky, as I was 
placed in a family who judged ignorance the best 
and only security for obedience. — A little read- 
ing and writing I got by unwearied application. 
The latter part of my life has been, through 
God's blessing, truly fortunate — having spent it 
in the service of one of the best and greatest fam- 
ilies in the kingdom — my chief pleasure has been 
books — Philanthropy I adore — How very much^ 
good Sir, am I (amongst millions) indebted to 

* Ignatius Sancho was a black, and born in 1729, on 
board a ship in the slave trade, a few days after she had 
quitted the coast of Guinea for the Spanish West-Indies, 
Ke was a very sensible man, and was many years in the 
service of the late Duke of Manchester, who left him 
an annuity. 



24 

you for the character of your amiable Uncle 
Toby ! — I declare I would walk ten miles in the 
dog-days to shake hands with the honest Corpo- 
ral. — Your sermons have touch'd me to the heart, 
and I hope have amended it, which brings me to 
the point — In your tenth discourse, is this pas- 
sage — *' Consider how great a part of our species 
in all ages, down to this — have been trod under 
the feet of cruel and capricious tyrants, who 
would neither hear their cries, nor pity their dis- 
tresses. — Consider slavery — what it is — how bitter 
a draught — and how many millions are made to 
drink of it."— -Of all my favourite authors, not 
one has drawn a tear in favour of my miserable 
black brethren — excepting yourself, and the hu- 
mane author of Sir Geo. Ellison, — I think you 
will forgive me ; I am sure you will applaud me 
for beseeching you to give one half hour's atten- 
tion to slavery, as it is this day practised in our 

West-Indies. That subject handled in your 

striking manner would ease the yoke (perhaps) of 
many — but if only of one — gracious God ! what 
a feast for a benevolent heart ! and sure I am, 
you are an epicurean in acts of charity, — You 
who are universally read, and as universally ad- 
mired — you could not fail. -Dear Sir, think in 

me you behold the uplifted hands of thousands of 
my brother Moors. Grief (you pathetically ob- 
serve) is eloquent : figure to yourself their atti- 
tudes ; hear their supplicating addresses ! 

alas ! you cannot refuse. — Humanity must com- 
ply — in which hope I beg permission to subscribe 
myself. Reverend Sir 5 &c. 

I. S, 



25 

FROM MR. STERNE TO IGNATIUS SAN- 
CHO. 

Coxwould, July 26, 1766. 
THERE is a strange coincidence, San- 
cho, in the little events (as well as in the great 
ones) of this world : for I had been writing a 
tender tale of the sorrows of a friendless poor 
negro-girl, and my eyes had scarce done smarting 
with it, when your letter of recommendation, in 
behalf of so many of her brethren and sisters, 
came to me — but why her brethren P or yours, 
Sancho P any more than mine ? It is by the finest 
tints and most insensible gradations, that nature 
descends from the fairest face about St. James's 
to the sootiest complexion in Africa : — at which 
tint of these is it, that the ties of blood are to 
cease ? — and how many shades must we descend 
lower still in the scale, ere mercy is to vanish 
with them ? But 'tis no uncommon thing, my 
good Sanchoy for one half of the world to use the 
other half of it like brutes, and then endeavour to 
make 'em so. — For my own part I never look 
westward (when I am in a pensive mood at least) 
but I think of the burthens which our brothers 
and sisters are there carrying, and could I ease 
their shoulders from one ounce of them, I declare 
I would set out this hour upon a pilgrimage to 
Mecca for their sakes — which, by the bye, San- 
cho, exceeds your walk of ten miles in about the 
same proportion that a visit of humanity should 
one of mere form. — However, if you meant my 
Uncle Toby, more he is your debtor. " If I 
C 



26 

can weave the tale I have wrote into the work 
I am about — 'tis at the service of the afflicted — 
and a much greater matter ; for, in serious truth, 
it casts a sad shade upon the world, that so great 
a part of it are, and have been so long, bound in 
chains of darkness, and in chains of misery ; and 
I cannot but both respect and felicitate you, that 
by so much laudable diligence you have broke the 
one — and that by falling into the hands of so great 
and merciful a family, Providence has rescued you 
from the other. 

And so, good-hearted Sancho, adieu ! and be* 
lieve me, I will not forget your letter. 

Yours, 
L. Sterne. 



TO ELIZA. 

MY, DEAR ELIZA !* 

I BEGAN a new journal this morning $ 
you shall see it ; for if I live not till you return to 
England, I will leave it you as a legacy. 'Tis a 
sorrowful page ; but I will write cheerful ones ; 
and could I write letters to thee, they should be 
cheerful ones too ; but few, I fear, will reach 
thee I However, depend upon receiving some- 
thing of the kind by every post ; till when thou 
wavest thy hand, and bid'st me write no more. 

Tell me how you are ; and what sort of forti- 
tude Heaven inspires you with. How are you 

* This lady's name was Draper, wife of Daniel Draper* 
Esq. of Bombay, 



27 

accommodated, my dear : Is all right ? Scribble 
away any thing, and every thing to me. De- 
pend upon seeing me, at Deal, with the James's, 
should you be detained there by contrary winds. 
Indeed, Eliza, I should with pleasure fly to you, 
could I be the means of rendering you any service, 
or doing you any kindness. Gracious and merci- 
ful God ! consider the anguish of a poor girl ! — 
Strengthen and preserve her in all the shocks her 
frame must be exposed to. She is now without a 
protector, but thee ! Save her from all accidents 
of a dangerous element, and give her comfort at 
the last. 

My prayer, Eliza, I hope, is heard ; for the 
sky seems to smile upon me as I look up to it. I 
am just returned from our dear Mrs. James's, 
where I have been talking of thee for three 

hours. She has got your picture, and likes it : 

but Marriot, and some other judges, agree that 
mine is the better, and expressive of a sweeter 
character, but what is that to the original ? yet I 
acknowledge that hers is a picture for the world, 
and mine is calculated only to please a very sincere 

friend, or sentimental philosopher. In the one, 

you are dressed in smiles, and with all the advan- 
tages of silks, pearls and ermine ; — in the other, 
simple as a vestal, appearing the good girl nature 
made you !— which, to me, conveys an idea of 
more unaffected sweetness, than Mrs. Draper, 
habited for conquest, in a birth-day suit, with her 
countenance animated, and her dimples visible. — 
If I remember right, Eliza, you endeavoured to 
collect every charm of your person into your face, 



28 

with more than common care, the day you sat for 
Mrs. James— Your colour, too, brightened ; and 
your eyes shone with more than usual brilliancy. 
I then requested you to come simply and unadorn- 
ed when you sat for me — knowing (as I see with 
unprejudiced eyes) that you could receive no addi- 
tion from the silk-worm's aid, or jeweller's polish. 
Let me now tell you a truth, which, I believe, I 
have uttered before. — — When I first saw you, J 
beheld you as an object of compassion, and as a 
very plain woman. The mode of your dress, 

(though fashionable) disfigured you. -But 

nothing now could render you such, but the being 
solicitous to make yourself admired as a handsome 

one. You are not handsome, Eliza, nor is 

yours a face that will please the tenth part of your 
beholders — but are something more ; for I scruple 
not to tell you, I never saw so intelligent, so ani- 
mated, so good a countenance ; nor was there 
(nor ever will be) that man of sense, tenderness, 
and feeling, in your company three hours, that 
was not (or will not be) your admirer, or friend, 
in consequence of it ; that is, if you assume, or 
assumed, no character foreign to your own, but 
appeared the artless being nature designed you for. 
A something in your eyes and voice, you possess 
in a degree more persuasive than any woman I 
ever saw, read, or heard of. But it is that be- 
witching sort of nameless excellence, that men of 
nice sensibility alone can be touched with. 

Were your husband in England, I would freely 
give five hundred pounds (if money could purchase 
the acquisition) to let you only sit by me two hours 



29 

in a day, while I wrote my Sentimental Journey. 
I am sure the work would sell so much the 
better for it, that I should be reimbursed the 

sum more than seven times told. 1 would not 

give nine-pence for the picture of you the Newn- 
hams have got executed—- It is the resemblance 
of a conceited made-up coquet. Your eyes, and 
the shape of your face (the latter the most per- 
fect oval I ever saw) which are perfections that 
must strike the most indifferent judge, because 
they are equal to any of God's works in a similar 
way, and finer than any I beheld in all my travels, 
are manifestly injured by the affected leer of the 
one. and strange appearance of the other ; owing 
to the attitude of the head, which is a proof of 
the artist's, or your friend's false taste. The 
***'s who verify the character I once gave of 
teazing, or sticking like pitch, or birdlime, sent a 
card that they would wait on Mrs. **** on Fri- 
day. — She sent back, she was engaged — Then to 
meet at Ranelagh to-night. She answered, she 

did not go. She says, if she allows the least 

footing, she never shall get rid of the acquaint- 
ance ; which she is resolved to drop at once. She 
knows they are not her friends, nor yours ; and 
the first use they would make of being with her 
would be to sacrifice you to her (if they could) a 
second time. Let her not then (let her not, my 
dear) be a greater friend to thee, than thou art to 
thyself. She begs I will reiterate my request to 
you, that you will not write to them. It will 
give her, and thy Bramin, inexpressible pain. Be 
assured, all this is not without reason on her side* 
C2 



M 

I have my reasons too ; the first of which is, that 
I should grieve to excess, if Eliza wanted that 
fortitude her Yorick has built so high upon. I 
said I never more would mention the name to thee ; 
and had I not received it, as a kind of charge from 
a dear woman that loves you, I should not have 
broke my word. I will write again to-morrow 
to thee, thou best and most endearing of girls ! 
A peaceful night to thee. My spirit will be with 
thee through every watch of it. 

Adieu.. 



TO THE SAME. 

MY DEAREST ELIZA ! 

OH ! I grieve for your cabin. A.nd 

the fresh painting will be enough to destroy every 
nerve about thee. Nothing so pernicious as white 
lead. Take care of yourself, dear girl ; and sleep 
not in it too soon. It will be enough to give 
you a stroke of an epilepsy. I hope you will 
have left the ship : and that my letters may meet, 
and greet you, as you get out of your post-chaise, 
at Deal.- — When you have got them all, put them, 
my dear, into some order. — The first eight or nine 
are numbered : but I wrote the rest without that 
direction to thee ; but, that wilt find them out, 
by the day or hour, which, I hope, I have gene- 
rally prefixed to them. When they are got to*. 
gether in chronological order, sew them together 
in a cover. I trust they will be a perpetual re- 
fuge to thee from time to time ; and that thou 



31 

wilt (when weary of fools, and uninteresting dis- 
course) retire, and converse an hour with them 
and me. 

I have not had power, or the heart, to aim at 
enlivening any one of them with a single stroke of 
wit or humour : but they contain something bet- 
ter ; and what you will feel more suited to your 
situation — a long detail of much advice, truth, and 
knowledge. I hope, too, you will perceive loose 
touches of an honest heart, to every one of them ; 
which speak more than the most studied periods ; 
and will give thee more ground of trust and con- 
fidence upon Yorick, than all that laboured elo- 
quence could supply. Lean then thy whole weight, 
Eliza, upon them and upon me. " May poverty, 
distress, anguish, and shame, be my portion, if 
ever I give thee reason to repent the knowledge 

of me !" With this asseveration, made in the 

presence of a just God, I pray to him, that so it 
may speed me, as I deal candidly and honourably 
with thee ! I would not mislead thee, Eliza ; I 
would not injure thee, in the opinion of a single 
individual, for the richest crown the proudest mon- 
arch wears. 

Remember, that while I have life and power, 
whatever is mine, you may style and think yours — 
Though sorry should I be, if ever my friendship 
was put to the test thus, for your own delicacy's 
sake. — Money and counters are of equal use in 
my opinion ; they both serve to set up with. 

I hope you will answer me this letter ; but if 
thou art debarred by the elements which hurry 
thee away, I will write one for thee ; and know 



ing it is such a one as thou would 'st have written, 
I will regard it as my Eliza's. 

Honour, and happiness, and health, and com* 
forts of every kind, sail along with thee, thou 
most worthy of girls I I will live for thee, and my 
Lydia — be rich for the children of my heart — 
gain wisdom, gain fame, and happiness, to share 
with them — with thee — and her in my old age. — 
Once for all, adieu. Preserve thy life ; steadily 
pursue the ends we proposed ; and let nothing 
rob thee of those powers Heaven has given thee 
for thy well-being. 

What can I add more, in the agitation of mind 
I am in, and within five minutes of the last post- 
man's bell, but recommend thee to Heaven, and 
recommend myself to Heaven with thee, in the 
same fervent ejaculation, " that we may be happy, 
and meet again : if not in this world, in the next." — 
Adieu.— I am thine, Eliza, affectionately, and 
everlastingly, 

YORICK. 



THE PRECEPTOR. 

YOU see 'tis high time, said my father, 
addressing himself equally to my uncle Toby and 
Torici, to take this young creature out of these 
women's hands, and put him into those of a pri- 
vate governor. 

Now as I consider the person who is to be about 
my son, as the mirror in which he is to view him- 
self from morning to night, and by which he is to 



33 

adjust his looks, his carriage, and perhaps the in- 
most sentiments of his heart ; — I would have one, 
Torick, if possible, polished at all points, fit for 
my child to look into. 

There is, continued my father, a certain mien 
and motion of the body and all its parts, both in 
acting and speaking, which argues a man well 
within, There are a thousand unnoticed openings, 
continued my father, which let a penetrating eye at 
once into a man's soul ; and I maintain it, added he, 
that a man of sense does not lay down his hat in com- 
ing into a room, — or take it up in going out of it, 
but something escapes which discovers him, 

I will have him, continued my father, cheerful, 
facete, jovial ; at the same time, prudent, attentive 
to business, vigilant, acute, argute, inventive, quick 
in resolving doubts and speculative questions :— *- 
he shall be wise, and judicious, and learned :— 
And why not humble, and moderate, and gentle 
tempered, and good ? said Torich ; — And why 
not, cried my uncle Toby, free, and generous, and 
bountiful, and brave ? — He shall, my dear Toby, 
cried my father, getting up and shaking him by 
his hand. — Then, brother Shandy, answered my 
uncle Toby, raising himself off the chair, and lay- 
ing down his pipe to take hold of my father's 
other hand — I numbly beg I may recommend 
poor Le Fevre's son to you ; — a tear of joy of the 
first water sparkled in my uncle Toby's eye, — and 
another, the fellow to it, in the Corporal's, as the 
proposition was made ; — you will see why, when 
you read Le Fevre's story. 



34 



THE STORY OF LE FEVRE. 

IT was some time in the summer of that 
year in which Dendermond was taken by the Al- 
lies ; when my uncle Toby was one evening getting 
his supper, with Trim, sitting behind him at a 
small sideboard, I say sitting — for in consideration 
of the Corporal's lame knee (which sometimes 
gave him exquisite pain) — when my uncle Toby 
dined or supped alone he would never suffer the 
Corporal to stand ; and the poor fellow's venera- 
tion was such, that with a proper artillery, my 
uncle Toby could have taken Dendermond itself, 
with less trouble than he was able to gain this 
point over him ; for many a time, when my uncle 
Toby supposed the Corporal's leg was at rest, he 
would look back, and detect him standing behind 
him with the most dutiful respect : this bred more 
little squabbles betwixt them, than all other causes 

for five and twenty years together But this is 

neither here nor there — why do I mention it ? 
Ask my pen, — it governs me, I govern not it. 

He was one evening sitting thus at supper, 
when the landlord of a little inn in the village came 
into the parlour with an empty phial in his hand, 
to beg a glass or two of sack ; 'Tis for a poor 
gentlemen, — I think of the army, said the land- 
lord, who has been taken ill at my house four 
days ago, and has never held up his head since, or 
had a desire to taste any thing, till just now, that 
he has a fancy for a glass of sack and a thin 

toast : " / think" says he, taking his hand 

from his forehead, " it would comfort me*" 



S5 

— If I could neither beg, borrow, or buy suck 
a thing, — added the landlord, — I would almost 

steal it for the poor gentleman, he is so ill 1 

hope in God he will still mend, continued he 

we are all of us concerned for him. 

Thou art a good-natured soul, I will answer for 
thee, cried my uncle Toby ; and thou shalt drink 
the poor gentleman's health in a glass of sack thy- 
self, — and take a couple of bottles with my ser- 
vice, and tell him he is heartily welcome to them, 
and to a dozen more if they will do him good. 

Though I am persuaded, said my uncle Toby, as 
the landlord shut the door, he is a very compas- 
sionate fellow — Trim, — yet I cannot help enter- 
taining a high opinion of his guest too ; there 
must be something more than common in him, that 
in so short a time should win so much upon the 
affections of his host : — And of his whole family, 
added the Corporal, for they are all concerned 
for him. — -Step after him, said my uncle Toby, 
mm — do, Trim, and ask if he knows his name. 

— I have quite forgot it, truly, said the land- 
lord, coming back into the parlour with the Cor- 
poral, but I can ask his son again. He 

has a son with him then ? said my uncle Toby. — 
A boy, replied the landlord, of about eleven or 
twelve years of age ; — — but the poor creature 
has tasted almost as little as his father ; he does 
nothing but mourn and lament for him night and 

day : He has not stirred from the bed-side 

these two days. 

My uncle Toby laid down his knife and fork, 
and thrust his plate from before him, as the land* 



lord gave him the account ; and Trim, without 
being ordered, took away, without saying one 
word ; and in a few minutes after brought him 
his pipe and tobacco. 

Trim ! said my uncle Toby, I have a project in 
my head, as it is a bad night, of wrapping myself 
up warm in my roquelaure, and paying a visit to 
this poor gentleman. Your honour's roque- 
laure, replied the Corporal, has not once been on, 
since the night before your honour received your 
wound, when we mounted guard in the trenches 
before the gate of St. Nicholas : and be- 
sides, it is so cold and rainy a night, that what 
with the roquelaure, and what with the w r eather, 
it will be enough to give your honour your death, 
and bring on your honour's torment in your groin. 
I fear so, replied my uncle Toby ; but I am not 
at rest in my mind, Trim, since the account the 

landlord has given me. 1 wish I had not 

known so much of this affair, — added my uncle 

Toby, — or that I had known more of it : 

How shall we manage it ? Leave it, an't please 
your honour, to me, quoth the Corporal ; — I'll 
take my hat and stick, and go to the house and 
reconnoitre, and act accordingly ; and I will bring 
your honour a full account in an hour. — Thou 
shalt go, Trim 9 said my uncle Toby, and here's a 
shilling for thee to drink with his servant. — I shall 
get it all out of him, said the Corporal, shutting 
the door. 

It was not till my uncle Toby had knocked the 
ashes out of his third pipe, that Corporal Trim 
returned from the inn, and gave him the follow- 
ing account. 



37 

I despaired, at first, said the Corporal, of being 
able to bring back your honour any intelligence 

concerning the poor sick Lieutenant Is he in 

the army, then ? said my uncle Toby — He is, said 
the Corporal — And in what regiment ? said my 
uncle Toby — I'll tell your honour, replied the 
Corporal, every thing straight forward, as I learnt 
it — Then, Trim, I will fill another pipe, said my 
uncle Toby, and not interrupt thee till thou hast 
done ; so sit down at thy ease, Trim, in the win- 
dow seat, and begin thy story again. The Cor- 
poral made his old bow, which generally spoke as 
plain as a bow could speak it — Tour honour Is 
good : And having done that, he sat down, as he 
was ordered, — and began the story to my uncle 
Toby over again, in pretty near the same words. 

I despaired at first, said the Corporal, of being 
able to bring back any intelligence to your hon- 
our, about the Lieutenant and his son ; for when 
I asked where his servant was, from whom I 
made myself sure of knowing every thing which 
was proper to be asked — That's a right distinc- 
tion, Trim, said my uncle Toby — -I was answered, 
an' please your honour, that he had no servant 
with him ; — that he had come to the inn with 
hired horses, which, finding himself unable to pro- 
ceed (to join, I suppose the regiment,) he had 
dismissed the morning after he came. — If I get 
better, my dear, said he, as he gave his purse to 
his son to pay the man, — we can hire horses from 
hence. — But, alas ! the poor gentleman will never 
get from hence, said the landlady to me — for I 
heard the death watch all night long ; — and when 
D 



38 

he dies, the youth, his son, will certainly die with 
him ; for he is broken-hearted already. 

I was hearing this account, continued the Cor- 
poral, when the youth came into the kitchen, to 
order the thin toast the landlord spoke of ; — but I 
will do it for my father myself, said the youth. — 
Pray let me save you the trouble, young gentle- 
man, said I, taking up a fork for the purpose, 
and offering hirn my chair to sit down upon by 
the fire, whilst I did it.— I believe, Sir, said he, 
very modestly, I can please him best myself. — I 
am sure, said I, his honour will not like the toast 
the worse for being toasted by an old soldier. — 
The youth took hold of my hand, and instantly 

burst into tears. Poor youth ! said my Uncle 

Toby, — he has been bred up an infant in the army, 
and the name of a soldier, Trim, sounded in his 
ears like the name of a friend ; — I wish I had 
him here. 

— I never in the longest march, said the Cor- 
poral, had so great a mind to my dinner, as I had 
to cry with him for company :— What could be 
the matter with me, an' please your honour ? 
Nothing in the world, Trim, said my uncle Toby, 
blowing his nose,— but that thou art a good-na- 
tured fellow. 

When I gave him the toast, continued the 
Corporal, I thought it was proper to tell him I 
was Captain Shandy s servant, and that your hon- 
our (though a stranger) was extremely sorry for 
his father ; — -and that if there was any thing in 
your house or cellar — (and thou might'st have 
added my purse too, said my uncle Toby,) — he- 



39 

was heartily welcome to it :-— He made a very 
low bow (which was meant to your honour, but 
no answer,— for his heart was full— so he went 
up stairs with the toast ; — I warrant you,, my 
dear, said I, as I opened the kitchen door, your 
father will be well again. — Mr. Toric£*s curate 
w r as smoking a pipe by the kitchen fire, — but said 
not a word good nor bad to comfort the youth. — 
I thought it wrong, added the Corporal- — I think 
so too, said my uncle Toby. 

When the lieutenant had taken his glass of 
sack and toast, he felt himself a little revived, and 
sent into the kitchen, to let me know, that in 
about ten minutes he should be glad if I would 
step up stairs. — I believe, said the landlord, he is 
going to say his prayers, — for there was a book 
laid upon the chair by his bed-side, and as I shut 
the door, I saw his son take up a cushion. — — 

I thought, said the curate, that you, gentle- 
men of the army, Mr. Trim, never said your 
prayers at all. — I heard the poor gentleman say 
his prayers last night, said the landlady, very de- 
voutly, and with my own ears, or I could not 
have believed it. — Are you sure of it : replied 
the curate. — A soldier, an' please your reverence, 
said I, prays as often (of his own accord) as a 
parson ;— and when he is fighting for his king, 
and for his life, and for his honour too ; he has 
the most reason to pray to God, of any one in the 
whole world.— 'Twas well said, of thee, Trim, 
said my uncle Toby. — But when a soldier, said I, 
an 7 please your reverence, has been standing for 
twelve hours together in the trenches, up to 



40 

his knees in cold water, — or engaged, said 1, for 
months together in long and dangerous marches ; 
harassed, perhaps, in his rear to-day : harassing 
others to-morrow :- — detached here ; — counter- 
manded there ; — resting this night out upon his 
arms ; beat up in his shirt the next ; — benumbed 
in his joints ; — perhaps without straw in his tent 
to kneel on ; must say his prayers how and when 

he can. 1 believe, said I — (for I was piqued, 

quoth the Corporal, for the reputation of the 
army) — I believe, an* please your reverence, said 

I, that when a soldier gets time to pray he 

prays as heartily as a parson, though not with 

all his fuss and hypocrisy. Thou should'st not 

have said that, Trim, said my uncle Toby,- for 

God only knows who is a hypocrite, and who is 
not : — At the great and general review of us all, 
Corporal, at the day of judgment, (and not till 
then)— 4t will be seen who have done their duties 
in this world,-— and who have not ; and we shall 
be advanced, Trim, accordingly. ■ I hope we 
shall, said Trim. — It is in the Scripture, said my 
uncle Toby ; and I will show it thee to-mor- 
row :— In the mean time we may depend upon 

it, Trim, for our comfort, said my uncle Toby, 
that God Almighty is so good and just a gov- 
ernor of the world, that if we have but done our 
duties in it, — it will never be inquired into, 
whether we have done them in a red coat or a 
black one : I hope not, said the Corporal. — But 
go on, Trim, said my uncle Toby, with the story. 
When I went up, continued the Corporal, into 
the Lieutenant's room, which I did not do till the 



41 

expiration of the ten minutes, be was laying in his 
bed, with his head raised upon his hand, with his 
elbow upon the pillow, and a clean white handker- 
chief beside it :— The youth was just stooping 
down to take up the cushion, upon which I sup- 
posed he had been kneeling ;- the book was 

laid upon the bed ;-— and as he rose, in taking 
up the cushion with one hand, he reached out his 
other to take it away at the same time. Let it 
remain there, my dear, said the Lieutenant. 

He did not offer to speak to me, till I had 
walked up close to his bed-side : If you are Cap- 
tain Shandy's servant, said he, you must present 
my thanks to your master, with my little boy's 
along with them, for his courtesy to me ; — if he 

was of Leven's — said the Lieutenant 1 told 

him your honour was. — Then, said he, I served 
three campaigns with him rn Flanders^ and re- 
member him,-- but 'tis most likely, as I had not 

the honour of any acquaintance with him, that he 
knows nothing of me. — — You will tell him, how- 
ever, that the person his good nature has laid under 
obligations to him, is one Le Fevre, a Lieutenant 
in Angus's — but he knows me not,-— said he, a se- 
cond time, musing ; — possibly he may my story,-— 

added he, pray tell the Captain, I was the 

Ensign at Breda, whose wife was most unfortu- 
nately killed with a musket shot, as she lay in my 

arms in my tent.— 1 remember the story, an't 

please your honour, said I very well.— — Do you 
so ? said he, wiping his eyes with his handker- 
chief ;— then well may I. In saying this 

he drew a little ring out of his bosom, which 
D2 



¥2, 

seemed tied with a black ribband about his neck, 
and kiss'd it twice — Here, Billy, said he, — the 
boy flew across the room to the bed-side, and fall- 
ing down upon his knee, took the ring in his hand, 
and kiss'd it too, — then kiss'd his father, and sat 
down upon the bed and wept. 

I wish, said my uncle Toby, with a deep sigh, — 
I wish, Trim, I was asleep. 

Your honour, replied the Corporal, is too much 
concerned ; — shall I pour your honour out a glass 
of sack to your pipe ? Do, Trim, said my uncle 
Toby. 

I remember, said my uncle Toby, sighing again, 
the story of the Ensign and his wife, — and partic- 
ularly well, that he, as well as she, upon some ac- 
count or other (I forget what), was universally 
pitied by the whole regiment ; but finish the story 

thou art upon : 'Tis finished already, said the 

Corporal, — for I could stay no longer, — so wished 
his honour a good night ; young Le Fevre rose 
from off the bed, and saw me to the bottom of 
the stairs ; and as we went down together, told 
me they had come from Ireland, and were on their 
route to join their regiment in Flanders. But 
alas ! said the Corporal,— -the Lieutenant's last 
day's march is over.— Then what is to become of 
his poor boy ? cried my uncle Toby. 

It was to my uncle Toby's eternal honour, that 
he set aside every other concern, and only consid- 
ered how he himself should relieve the poor Lieu- 
tenant and his son. 

That kind being, who is a friend to the friend^ 
less, shall recompense thee for this ! 



43 

Thou hast left this matter short, said my uncle 
Toby to the Corporal, as he was putting him to 
bed, — and I will tell thee in what, Trim — In the 
first place, when thou madest an offer of my ser- 
vices to Le Fevre, — as sickness and travelling are 
both expensive, and thou knowest he was but a 
poor Lieutenant, with a son to subsist as well as 
himself out of his pay,— that thou didst not make 
an offer to him of my purse ; because, had he 
stood in need, thou knowest, Trim, he had been 
as welcome to it as myself. — Your honour knows, 
said the Corporal, I had no orders. — True, quoth 
my uncle Toby, — thou didst very right, Trim, as a 
soldier, — but certainly very wrong as a man. 

In the second place, for which, indeed, thou 
hast the same excuse, continued my uncle Toby, — 
when thou offeredst him whatever was in my 
house, thou shouldst have offered him my house 
too : — A sick brother officer should have the best 
quarters, Trim ; and if we had him with us, — we 
could tend and look to him : — Thou art an ex- 
cellent nurse thyself, Trim ; and what with thy 
care of him, and the old woman's, his boy's and 
mine together, we might recruit him again at 
once, and set him upon his legs 

— In a fortnight or three weeks, added my un- 
cle Toby 9 smiling, he might march. He 

will never march, an't please your honour, in this 
world, said the Corporal ; — He will march, said 
my uncle Toby, rising up from the side of the bed, 
with one shoe off : — An't please your honour, said 
the Corporal, he will never march but to his grave : 
He shall march, cried my uncle Toby 9 marching the 



44 

foot which had a shoe on, though without ad- 
vancing an inch — he shall march to his regi- 
ment He cannot stand it, said the Corpo- 
ral : -He shall be supported, said my uncle 

Toby : — He'll drop at last, said the Corporal, and 
what will become of his boy ? — He shall not drop, 
said my uncle Toby, firmly. A-well-a'day — do 
what we can for him, said Trim, maintaining his 
point, — the poor soul will die. He shall not die, 
by G — , cried by uncle Toby. 

— The accusing spirit, which flew up to 
Heaven's chancery with the oath, blush'd as he 
gave it in, and the recording angel, as he 
wrote it down, dropp'd a tear upon the word, and 
blotted it out for ever. 

My uncle Toby went to his bureau, put 

his purse into his breeches pocket, and having or- 
dered the Corporal to go early in the morning for 
a physician, he went to bed, and fell asleep. 

The sun looked bright, the morning after, to 
every eye in the village but Le Fevre's and his 
afflicted son's ; the hand of death press'd heavy 

on his eye-lids, and hardly could the wheel at 

the cistern turn round it's circle, — when my uncle 
Toby, who had rose up an hour before his wonted 
time, entered the Lieutenant's room, and without 
preface or apology, sat himself down upon the 
chair by the bed-side, and independently of all 
modes and customs, opened the curtain in the 
manner an old friend and brother officer would 
have done it, and asked him how he did, — how 
he had rested in the night, — what was his com- 
plaint, — where was his pain, — and what he could 



45 

«io to help him ? and without giving him time 

to answer any one of the inquiries, went on and 
told him of the little plan which he had been con- 
certing with the corporal the night before for 

him, 

-You shall go home directly, Le Fevre, 



said my uncle Toby, to my house, and we'll 

send for a doctor to see what's the matter, 

and we'll have an apothecary, and the Corpo- 
ral shall be your nurse ; and I'll be your ser- 
vant, Le Fevre. 

There was a frankness in my uncle Toby, — -not 
the effect of familiarity, but the cause of it,— which 
let you at once into his soul, and shewed you the 
goodness of his nature ; to this there was some- 
thing in his looks and voice, and manner, super- 
added, which eternally beckoned to the unfor- 
tunate to come and to take shelter under him ; so 
that before my uncle Toby had half finished the 
kind offers he was making to the father, had the 
son insensibly pressed up close to his knees, and 
had taken hold of the breast of his coat, and was 
pulling it towards him. — The blood and spirits of 
Le Fevre, which were waxing cold, and were re- 
treating to their last citadel, the heart, — rallied 
back : the film forsook his eyes for a mo- 
ment ; he looked up wishfully in my uncle 

Toby's face, then cast a look upon his boy, 

and that ligament, fine as it was, was never bro- 
ken. 

Nature instantly ebb'd again,- the film re- 
turned to its place the pulse fluttered — stopp'd 

—went on — throbb'd — stopp'd again — moved— 
stopp'd — shall I go on ! — No. 



46 

All that is necessary to be added, is as follows — 

That my uncle Toby, with young Le Fevre in 
his hand, attended the poor Lieutenant, as chief 
mourners, to his grave. 

When my uncle Toby had turned every thing 
into money, and settled all accounts betwixt the 
agent of the regiment and Le Fevre, and betwixt 

Le Fevre and all mankind, there remained 

nothing more in my uncle Toby's hands, than an 
old regimental coat and a sword ; so that my un- 
cle Toby found little opposition from the world in 
taking administration. The coat my uncle Toby 
gave the Corporal : — Wear it, Trim, faid my un- 
cle Toby, as long as it will hold together, for the 
sake of the poor Lieutenant — And this, said my 
uncle Toby, taking up the sword in his hand, and 
drawing it out of the scabbard as he spoke -and 

this, Le Fevre, I'll save for thee 'tis all the 

fortune, my dear Le Fevre, which God has left 
thee ; but if he has given thee a heart to fight thy 
way with it in the world, —and thou doest it like 
a man of honour, 'tis enough for us. 

As soon as my uncle Toby had laid a founda- 
tion, he sent him to a public school, where, except 
Whitsuntide and Christmas, at which time the 
Corporal was punctually dispatched for him.— he 
remained to the spring of the year, seventeen ; 
when the stories of the Emperor's sending his ar- 
my into Hungary against the Turks, kindling a 
spark of fire in his bosom, he left his Greek and 
Latin without leave, and throwing himself upon 
his knees before my uncle Toby, begged his father's 
sword, and my uncle Toby's leave along with it, to 



47 

go and try his fortune under Eugene Twice 

did my uncle Toby forget his wound, and cry out, 
Le Fevre ! I will go with thee, and thou shalt 
light beside me — And twice he laid his hand up- 
on his groin, hung down his head in sorrow and 
disconsolation. 

My uncle Toby took down the sword from the 
crook, where it had hung untouched ever since 
the Lieutenant's death, and delivered it to the 
Corporal to brighten up ; — and having detained 
Le Fevre a single fortnight to equip him, and 
contract for his passage to Leghorn, he put the 

sword into his hand : If thou art brave, Le 

Fevre, said my uncle Toby, this will not fail thee ; — 

but Fortune, said he, musing a little Fortune 

may — And if she does, added my uncle Toby, em- 
bracing him, come back again to me, Le Fevre, 
and we will shape thee another course. 

The greatest injury could not have oppressed 
the heart of Le Fevre, more than my uncle Toby's 
paternal kindness ; — he parted from my uncle Toby, 
as the best of sons from the best of fathers — both 
dropped tears — and as my uncle Toby gave him 
his last kiss, he slipped sixty guineas, tied up in 
an old purse of his father's, in which was his moth- 
er's ring, into his hand, and bid God bless him. 

Le Fevre got up to the Imperial army just time 
enough to try what metal his sword was made of 
at the defeat of the Turks before Belgrade ; but a 
series of unmerited mischances had pursued him 
from that moment, and trod close upon his heels 
for four years together after : he had withstood 
these bufferings to the last, till sickness overtook 



4*8 

him at Marseilles ; from whence he wrote my un- 
cle Toby word, he had lost his time, his services, 
his health, and, in short, every thing but his 
sword ; — and was waiting for the first ship to re- 
turn back to him. 

Le Fevre was hourly expected, and was upper- 
most in my uncle Toby's mind all the time my fa- 
ther was giving him and Torich a description of 
what kind of a person he would choose for a pre- 
ceptor to me : but as my uncle Toby thought my 
father at first somewhat fanciful in the accom- 
plishments he required, he forbore mentioning Le 
Fevre* s name, — till the character by Yorick's in- 
terposition, ending unexpectedly in one, who should 
be gentle -tempered, and generous, and good, it 
impressed the image of Le Fevre and his interest 
upon my uncle Toby, so forcibly, he rose instant- 
ly off his chair ; and laying down his pipe, in or- 
der to take hold of both my father's hands — I 
beg, brother Shandy, said my uncle Toby, I may 
recommend poor Le Fevre y s son to you — I be- 
seech you do, added Torich — He has a good heart, 
said my uncle Toby — And a brave one too, an't 
pleafe your honour, said the Corporal — The best 
hearts, Trim, are ever the bravest, replied my un- 
cle Toby. T. SHANDY, VOL. Ill, CHAP. 4$. 



THE PULSE. 

PARIS. 

HAIL, ye small sweet courtesies of life, 
for smooth do ye make the road of it : like grace 



49 

and beauty which beget inclinations to love at first 
sight : 'tis ye who open this door, and let the 
stranger in. 

— Pray, Madam, said I, have the goodness to 
tell me which way I must turn to go to the Opera 
Comique. — Most willingly, Monsieur, said she p 
laying aside her work 

I had given a cast with my eye into half a doz- 
en shops, as I came along, in search of a face not 
likely to be disordered by such an interruption ; 
till at last, this hitting my fancy, I had walked in. 

She was working a pair of ruffles as she sat in z 
low chair on the far side of the shop, facing the 
door 

— Tres-volontiers, most willingly, said she, lay- 
ing her work down upon a chair next her, and ris- 
ing up from the low chair she was sitting in, with 
so cheerful a movement, and so cheerful a look, 
that had I been laying out fifty louis d'ors with her, 
I should have said — " This woman is grateful.'' 

You must turn, Monsieur, said she, going with 
me to the door of the shop, and pointing the way 
down the street I was to take —you must tur& 
first to your left hand— mats prtne% garde — there 
are two turns ; and be so good as to take the sec- 
ond — then go down a little way and you'll see a 
church, and when you are past it, give yourself 
the trouble to turn directly to the right, and that 
will lead you to the foot of the Pont neuf, which 
you must cross— -and there any body will do him- 
self the pleasure to shew you 

She repeated her instructions three times over 
to me, with the same good-natured patience the 



. 50 

third time as the first ; — and if tones and manners 
have a meaning, which certainly they have, unless 
to hearts which shut them out— she seemed really 
interested, that I should not lose myself. 

I will not suppose it was the woman's beauty, 
notwithstanding she was the handsomest Grisset, 
I think, I ever saw, which had much to do with 
the sense I had of her courtesy ; only I remem- 
ber, when I told her how much I was obliged to 
her, that I looked very full in her eyes, — and that 
I repeated my thanks, as often as she had done 
her instructions. 

I had not got ten paces from the door, before 
I found I had forgot every tittle of what she had 
9 aid ; — so looking back, and seeing her still stand- 
ing at the door of the shop, as if to look wheth- 
er I went right or not — I returned back, to ask 
her whether the first turn was to my right or left 
— for that I had absolutely forgot. — Is it possi- 
ble ? said she, half laughing. — 'Tis very possible^ 
replied I, when a man is thinking more of a wo- 
man than of her good advice. 

As this was the real truth—she took it, as ev- 
ery woman takes a matter of right, with a slight 

courtsey. Aitende%> said she, laying her hand 

upon my arm to detain me, while she called a lad 
out of the back shop to get ready a parcel of 
gloves — I am just going to send him, said she, 
with a packet into that quarter ; and if you will 
have the complaisance to step in, it will be ready 
in a moment, and he shall attend you to the place. 

So I walked in with her to the far side of the 

shop, and taking np the ruffle in my hand which 



m 

she laid upon the chair, as if I had a mind to sit* 
she sat down herself in her low chair, arid I in- 
stantly sat myself down beside her. 

He will be ready, Monsieur, said she, 

in a moment— And in that moment, replied I, 

most willingly would I say something very civil 
to you for all these courtesies. Any one may do 
a casual act of good-nature, but a continuation 
of them shews it is a part of the temperature ; 
and certainly, added I, if it is the same blood 
which comes from the heart, which descends to 
the extremes (touching her wrist), I am sure you 
must have one of the best pulses of any woman in 
the world — Feel it, said she, holding out her arm. 
So laying down my hat, I took hold of her fin- 
gers in one hand, and applied the two fore-fingers 
of the other to the artery. 

Would to Heaven, my dear Eugenius, thou 

hadst passed by, and beheld me sitting in my 
black coat, and in my lack-a-day-sical manner, 
counting the throbs of it, one by one, with as 
much true devotion as if I had been watching the 
critical ebb or flow of her fever — — How wouldst 
thou have laughed and moralized upon my new 

profession ! — And thou should' st have laughed 

and moralized on —Trust me, my dear Eugenius y 

I should have said, " There are worse occupations 

in this world, than feeling a woman's pulse" 

But a Grisset's ! thou wouldst have said -and 

in an open shop ! Yorick— 

So much the better ; for when my views 

are direct, Eugenius^ I care not if all the world 
saw me feel it. 



I had counted twenty pulsations, and was go- 
ing on fast towards the fortieth, when her hus- 
band coming unexpected from a hack parlour 
into the shop, put me a little out of my reckon- 
ing. — 'Twas nobody but her husband, she said, — 
so I began a fresh score — Monsieur is so good, 
quoth she, as he passed by us, to give himself the 

trouble of feeling my pulse The husband took 

off his hat, and making me a bow, said I did him 
too much honour — - and having said that, he put 
on his hat and walked out. 

Good God ! said I to myself, as he went out — 
and can this man be the husband of this woman I 

Let it not torment the few who know what 
must have been the grounds of this exclamation, 
if I explain it to those who do not. 

Jn London, a shop-keeper and a shop-keeper's 
wife seem to be one bone and one flesh : in the 
several endowments of mind and body, sometimes 
the one, and sometimes the other has it, so as in 
general to be upon a par, and to tally with each 
other as nearly as man and wife need to do. 

In Paris, there are scarce two orders of beings 
more different : for the legislative and executive 
powers of the shop not resting in the husband, he 
seldom comes there — in some dark and dismal 
room behind, he sits, commerceless, in his thrum 
night-cap ; the same rough son of Nature that 
Nature left him. 

The genius of a people where nothing but the 
monarchy is salique, having ceded this department, 
with sundry others, totally to the women — by a 
continual higgling with customers of all ranks and 



sizes from morning to night, like so many rough 
pebbles shook long together in a bag, by amica- 
ble collisions they have worn down their asperities 
and sharp angles, and not only become round and 
smooth, but will receive, some of them, a polish 
like a brilliant— Monsieur Le Marl is little bet- 
ter than the stone u&der your foot. 

— Surely — — surely, man ! it is not good for 

thee to sit alone, thou wast made for social 

intercourse and gentle greetings ; and this improve- 
ment of our natures from it, I appeal to as my ev- 
idence. 

— And how does it beat, Monsieur ? said she. — • 
With all the benignity, said I, looking quitely in 
her eyes, that I expected — She was going to say 
something civil in return— but the lad came into 
the shop with the gloves- — A propos, said I, I 
want a couple of pair myself. 

The beautiful Grisset rose up when I said this, 
and going behind the counter, reached down a 
parcel and untied it : I advanced to the side over- 
against her ; they were all too large. The beau- 
tiful Grisset measured them one by one across my 
hand — It would not alter the dimensions — She 
begged I would try a single pair, which seemed 
to be least. — She held it open- — my hand slip- 
ped into it at once— — It will not do, said I, 
shaking my head a little — No, said she, doing the 
same thing. 

There are certain combined looks of simple 
subtlety where whim, and sense, and serious- 
ness, and nonsense are so blended, that all the 
languages of Babel set loose together could not 
E2 



54 

express them — they are communicated and caught 
so instantaneously, that you can scarce say which 
party is the infector. I leave it your to men of 
words to swell pages about it — it is enough in the 
present to say again, the gloves would not do ; 
so folding our hands within our arms, we both 
lolPd upon the counter — it was narrow, and there 
was just room for the parcel to lie between us. 

The beautiful Grisset looked sometimes at the 
gloves, then sideways to the window, then at the 
gloves — and then at me. I was not disposed to 
break silence — I followed her example. So I 
looked at the gloves, then to the window, then 
at the gloves, and then at her, — and so on alter- 
nately. 

I found I lost considerably in every attack — she 
had a quick black eye, and shot through two such 
long and silken eye-lashes with such penetration, 
that she looked into my very heart and reins — It 
may seem strange, but I could actually feel she 
did— 

It is no matter, said I, taking up a couple of the 
pairs next me, and putting them into my pocket. 

I was sensible the beautiful Grisset had not 
ask'd above a single livre above the price- — I wish'd 
she had asked a livre more, and was puzzling my 

brains how to bring the matter about Do you 

think, my dear Sir, said she, mistaking my em- 
barrassment, that I could ask a sous too much of 
a stranger — and of a stranger whose politeness, 
more than his want of gloves, has done me the 
honour to lay himself at my mercy i—~M y en creyez 
capable P — Faith ! not I, said I ; and if you were, 



you are welcome- — So counting the money into 
her hand, and with a lower bow than one general- 
ly makes to a shopkeeper's wife, I went out, and 
her lad with his parcel followed me. 

SENT. JOURNEY, PAGE 95. 



THE PIE-MAN. 

SEEING a man standing with a basket 
on the other side of the street, in Versailles, as if 
he had something to sell, I bid La Fleur go up 
to him and inquire for the Count de J9***'s hotel. 

La Fleur returned a little pale : and told me it 
was a Chevalier de St. Louis selling pates — It is 
impossible, La Fleur ! said I. — La Fleur could 
no more account for the phenomenon than 
myself ; but persisted in his story : he had seen 
the croix, set in gold, with its red ribband, he said 

tied to his button-hole and had looked into 

his basket, and seen the pates which the Chevalier 
was selling ; so could not be mistaken in that. 

Such a reverse in man's life awakens a better 
principle than curiosity : I could not help looking 
for some time at him as I sat in the remise — the 
more I looked at him, his croix, and his basket, 
the stronger they wove themselves into my brain — 
I got out of the remise, and went towards him. 

He was begirt with a clean linen apron which 
fell below his kness, and with a sort of bib which 
went half way up his breast ; upon the top of this, 
but a little below the hem, hung his croix. His- 



56 

basket of little pates was covered over with a white 
damask napkin ; another of the same kind was 
spread at the bottom ; and there was a look of 
pr - prets and neatness throughout ; that one might 
have bought his pates of him, as much from appe- 
tite as sentiment. 

He made an offer of them to neither ; but 
stood still with them at the corner of an hotel, for 
those to buy who chose it, without solicitation. 

He was about forty-eight — of a sedate look, 
something approaching to gravity. I did not 
wonder. — I went up rather to the basket than 
him, and having lifted up the napkin and taken 
one of his pates into my hand — I begged he would 
explain the appearance which affected me. 

He told me in a few words, that the best part of 
his life had passed in the service, in which, after 
spending a small patrimony, he had obtained a com- 
pany and the croix with it ; but that, at the conclu- 
sion of the last peace, his regiment being reform- 
ed, and the whole corps, with those of some other 

regiments, left without any provision, —he found 

himself in a wide world without friends, without 
a livre — —and indeed, said he, without any thing 
but this— (pointing, as he said it, to his croix) :—?■ 
the poor Chevalier won my pity, and he finished 
the scene with winning my esteem too. 

The king, he said, was the most generous of 
Princes ; but his generosity could neither relieve 
nor reward every one, and it was only his misfor- 
tune to be amongst the number. He had a little 
wife, he said, whom he loved, who did the pat- 
isserie ; and added? he felt no dishonour in defend* 



ing her and himself from want in this way 

unless Providence had offered him a better. 

It would be wicked to withold a pleasure from 
the good, in passing over what happened to this 
poor Chevalier of St. Louis about nine months 
after. 

It seems, he usually took his stand towards the 
iron gates which lead up to the palace ; and as 
his croix had caught the eyes of numbers, numbers 

had made the same inquiry which I had done 

He had told them the same story, and always with 
so much modesty and good sense, that it had 
reached at last the King's ears — who hearing the 
Chevalier had been a gallant officer, and respect- 
ed by the whole regiment as a man of honour and 
integrity — he broke up his little trade by a pen- 
sion of fifteen hundred livres a year. 

SENT. JOURNEY, PAGE 148. 



THE SWORD. 

RENNIS. 

WHEN states and empires have their pe- 
riods of declension, and feel in their turns what 

distress and poverty is 1 stop not to tell 

the causes which gradually brought the house 
d'E** % * in Brittany into decay. The Marquis 
#£**** had fought up against his condition 
with great firmness ; wishing to preserve, and 
still shew to the world some little fragment of 
what his ancestors had been — their indiscretions 



58 

had put it out of his power. There was enough 
left for the little exigencies of obscurity — But he 
had two boys who looked up to him for light— he 
thought they deserved it. He had tried his 
sword — it could not open the way — the mounting 
was too expensive— and simple economy was not 
a match for it — there was no resource but com- 
merce. 

In any other province in France, save Brittany, 
this was smiting the root for ever of the little tree 
his pride and affection wished to see re -blossom — 
But in Brittany there being a provision for this, he 
availed himself of it ; and taking an occasion when 
the States were assembled at Rennes, the Marquis, 
attended with his two boys, entered the court ; 
and having pleaded the right of an ancient law of 
the duchy, which, tho' seldom claimed, he said, 
was no less in furce, he took his sword from his 

side Here, said he, take it ; and be trusty 

guardians of it, till better times put me in condi- 
tion to reclaim it. 

The president accepted the Marquis's sword — * 
he staid a few minutes to see it deposited in the 
archives of his house, and departed. 

The Marquis and his whole family embarked 
the next day for Martinico, and in about nineteen 
or twenty years of successful application to busi- 
ness, with some unlooked-for bequests from distant 
branches of his house- — — returned home to re- 
claim his nobility, and to support it. 

It was an incident of good fortune which will 
never happen to any traveller but a sentimental 
nunc, that I should be at Rennes at the very time 



59 

of this solemn requisition— 1 call it solemn——. 

it was so to me. 

The Marquis entered the court with his whole 
family : he supported his lady — his eldest son sup- 
ported his sister, and his youngest was at the oth- 
er extreme of the line next his mother — He put 
his handkerchief to his face twice. — - — 

There was a dead silence. When the 



Marquis had approached within six paces of the 
tribunal, he gave the Marchioness to his youngest 
son, and advancing three steps before his family- 
he reclaimed his sword. His sword was 

given him, and the moment he got it into his hand, 

he drew it almost out of the scabbard 'twas 

the shinning face of a friend he had once given up 

he looked attentively along it, beginning at 

the hilt, as if to see whether it was the same 

when observing a little rust which it had contract- 
ed near the point, he brought it near his eye, and 
bending his head down over it- — I think I saw a 
tear fall upon the place : I could not be deceived 
by what followed. 

" I shall find," said he, " some other way to get 
it off." 

When the Marquis had said this, he returned 
his sword into its scabbard, made a bow to the 
guardians of it — and, with his wife and daughter, 
and his two sons following him, walked out. 

O how I envied him his feelings ! 

SENT. JOURNEY? PAGE 153. 



w 

THE ASS. 

I WAS stopped at the gate of Lyons by 
a poor ass, who had just turned in with a couple 
of large panniers upon his back, to collect eleem- 
osynary turniptops, and cabbage-leaves ; and stood 
dubious, with his two fore-feet on the inside of 
the threshold, and with his two hinder-feet towards 
the street, as not knowing very well whether he 
was to go in or no. 

Now 'tis an animal (be in what hurry I may) 
I cannot bear to strike there is a patient en- 
durance of sufferings, wrote so unaffectedly in his 
looks and carriage, which pleads so mightily for 
him, that it always disarms me ; and to that de- 
gree, that I do not like to speak unkindly to him : 
on the contrary, meet him where I will— whether 

in town or country, in cart or under panniers 

whether in liberty or bondage 1 have ever 

something civil to say to him on my part ; and as 
one word begets another (if he has as little to do 

as I)— 1 generally fall into conversation with 

him ; and surely never is my imagination so busy, 
as in framing his responses from the etchings of 
his countenance— —and where those carry me not 
deep enough- — in flying from my own heart into 
his, and seeing what is natural for an ass to think — 
as well as a man, upon the occasion. — In truth, it 
is the only creature of all the classes of beings be- 
low me, with whom I can do this :— : for parrots, 
jackdaws, &c. I never exchange a word with 

them nor with the apes, &c. for pretty near 

the same reason ; they act by rote, as the others 



61 

speak by it, and equally make me silent ; nay, my 
dog and my cat, though I value them both — (and 
for my dog, he would speak if he could) — yet 
somehow or other, they neither of them possess 
the talent for conversation — I can make nothing 
of a discourse with them. 

But with an ass I can commune for ever. 
Come, Honesty ! said I — seeing it was impracti- 
cable to pass betwixt him and the gate — art thou 
for coming in, or going out ? 

The ass twisted his head round to look up the 
street — 

Well-— replied I — we'll wait a minute for thy 
driver, 

— He turned his head thoughtful about, and 
looked wistfully the opposite way. 

I understand thee perfectly, answered I — if 
thou takest a wrong step in the affair, he will 
cudgel thee to death — Well ! a minute is but a 
miriute, and if it saves a fellow-creature a drub- 
bing, it shall not be set v down as ill spent. He 
was eating the stem of an artichoke as this dis- 
course went on, and, in the little peevish conten- 
tions of nature betwixt hunger and unsavoriness, 
had dropt it out of his mouth half a dozen times, 
and picked it up again — God help thee, Jack ! 
said I, thou hast a bitter breakfast on't — and 
many a bitter day's labour — and many a bitter 
blow, I fear, for its wages — 'tis all — all bitterness 
to thee, whatever life is to others. 

And now thy mouth, if one knew the truth of 
it, is as bitter, I dare say, as soot — (for he had 
rast aside the stem) and thou hast not a friend 
F 



62 

perhaps in all this world that will give thee a 

macaroon. In saying this, I pulled out a paper 

of them, which I had just purchased, and gave 
him one — -and at this moment that I am telling- 
it, my heart smites me, that there was more of 
pleasantry in the conceit, of seeing how an ass 
would eat a macaroon — than of benevolence in 
giving him one, which presided in the act. 

When the ass had eaten his macaroon, I press- 
ed him to come in — ■■ — the poor beast was heavy 
loaded — his legs seemed to tremble under him — 
he hung rather backwards, and as I pulled at his 

halter, it broke short in my hand he looked 

up pensive in my face " Don't thrash me 

with it, but if you will you may" — If I do, said 

I, I'll be d d. The word was but one half 

of it pronounced, when a person coming in, let 
fall a thundering bastinado upon the poor devil's 
crupper, which put an end to the ceremony. Out 
upon it ! cried I. 

TRISTRAM SHANDY, VOL. IV. CHAP. 13. 



THE ABUSES OF CONSCIENCE ; A SER- 
MON. 

HEBREWS XIII. 18* 

For ive trust we have a good conscience*— • 

" TRUST !— Trust we have a good 
conscience !" [Certainly Trim, quoth my fa- 
ther, interrupting him, you give that sentence a 



63 

very improper accent ; for you curl up your nese, 
man, and read it with such a sneering tone, as if 
the parson was going to abuse the Apostle. 

He is, an't please your honour, replied Trim. 

Pugh ! said my father, smiling. 

Sir, quoth Doctor Slop, Trim is certainly in the 
right ; for the writer (who I perceive is a Pro- 
testant by the snappish manner in which he takes 
up the Apostle,) is certainly going to abuse him; 
— if this treatment of him has not done it already. 
But from whence, replied my father, have you 
concluded so soon, Doctor Slop, that the writer is 
of our church ? — for aught I can see yet, — he 
may be of any church. — - — Because, answered 
Doctor Slop, if he was of ours,— he durst no 

more take such a licence, than a bear by his 

beard ; — If in our communion, Sir, a man was to 

insult an apostle, a saint, or even the 

paring of a saint's nail, — he would have his eye 
scratched out. — What, by the saint ? quoth my 
uncle Toby. No, replied Doctor Slop, he would 
have an old house over his head. Pray, is the 
Inquisition an ancient building, answered my un- 
cle Toby ; or is it a modern one ?• — I know 
nothing of architecture, replied Doctor Slop.— 
An't please your honours, quoth Trim, the inqui- 
sition is the vilest— Prithee spare thy description, 
Trim, I hate the very name of it, said my father. 

No matter for that, answered Doctor Slop, — 

it has its uses ; for though I'm no great advocate 
for it, yet, in such a case as this, he would soon be 
taught better manners ; and I can tell him, if he 
went on at that rate, would be flung into the in-* 



04 

quisition for his pains. God help him then, 
quoth my uncle Toby. Amen, added Trim ; for 
Heaven above knows, I have a poor brother who 
has been fourteen years a captive in it. — I never 
heard one word of it before, said my uncle Toby, 
hastily : How came he there, Trim ? — O, Sir ! 
the story will make your heart bleed, — as it has 
made mine a thousand times ; — the short of the story 
is this ; — That my brother Tom went over a ser- 
vant to Lisbon — and married a Jew's widow, who 
kept a small shop, and sold sausages, which, some 
how or other, was the cause of his being taken in 
the middle of the night out of his bed, where he 
was lying with his wife and two small children, 
and carried directly to the inquisition, where, God 
help him, continued Trim, fetching a sigh from 
the bottom of his heart, — the poor honest lad lies 
confined at this hour ; he was as honest a soul, 
added Trim, (pulling out his handkerchief,) as 
ever blood warmed. 

— The tears trickled down Trim's cheeks faster 
than he could well wipe them away. — A dead si- 
lence in the room ensued for some minutes. — Certain 
proof of pity ! Come, Tr : m 9 quoth my father, 
after he saw the poor fellow's grief had got a 
little vent, — read on, — and put this melancholy 
story out of thy head — I grieve that I interrupted 
thee : but prithee begin the Sermon again ; — for 
if the first sentence in it is matter of abuse, as 
thou sayest, I have a great desire to know what 
kind of provocation the Apostle has given. 

Corporal Trim, wiped his face, and returned 
his handkerchief into His pocket, and, making a 
bow as he did it, he began again.] 



65 • 

THE ABUSES OF CONSCIENCE ; A SER- 
MON. 

HEBREWS XIII. 18. 

For nve trust ive have a good conscience.—* — 

" TRUST ! trust we have a good con- 
science ! Surely, if there is any thing in this life 
which a man may depend upon, and to the knowl- 
edge of which he is capable of arriving upon the 
most indisputable evidence, it must be this very 
thing, — whether he has a good conscience or no." 
[I am positive I am right, quoth Dr. Slop.~\ 
" If a man thinks/at all, he cannot well be a 
stranger to the true state of this account ; — he 
must be privy to his own thoughts and desires — 
he must remember his past pursuits, and know 
certainly the true springs and motives, which in 
general have governed the actions of his ]\k." 
[I defy him, without an assistant, quoth Dr. 

" In other matters we may be deceived by 
false appearances ; and, as the wise man com- 
plains, hardly do ive guess aright at the things that 
are upon the earth, and with labour do we Jind the 
things that are before us. But here the mind has 
all the evidence and facts within herself ; — is con- 
scious of the web she has wove ; — knows its 
texture and fineness, and the exact share which 
every passion has had in working upon the several 
designs which virtue or vice has planned befort 
her." 

F2 



66 

[The language is good, and I declare Trim 
reads very well, quoth my father.] 

" Now, — as conscience is nothing else but the 
knowledge which the mind has within herself of 
this ; and the judgment, either of approbation or 
censure, which it unavoidably makes upon the 
successive actions of our lives ; 'tis plain, you will 
say, from the very terms of the proposition, — 
whenever this inward testimony goes against a 
man, and he stands self-accused, — that he must 
necessarily be a guilty man. — And, on the con- 
trary, when the report is favourable on his side, 
and his heart condemns him not ; — -that it is not 
a matter of trust, as the Apostle intimates, but a 
matter of certainty and fact that the conscience is 
good, and that the man must be good also." 

[Then the Apostle is altogether in the wrong, 
I suppose, quoth Dr. Slop, and the Protestant 
divine is in the right. Sir, have patience, replied 
my father ; for I think it will presently appear 
that Saint Paid and the Protestant divine are both 

of an opinion. As nearly so, quoth Dr. Slop, 

as east is to west ;— -but this, continued he, lift- 
ing both hands, comes from the liberty of the 
press. 

It is no more, at the worst, replied my uncle 
Toby, than the liberty of the pulpit, for it does 
not appear that the sermon is printed, or ever 
iikelv to be. 

Go on Trim, quoth my father.] 

H At first sight this may seem to be a true state 
of the case ; and I make no doubt but the knowl- 
edge of right and wrong is so truly impressed 



67 

upon the mind of man, — that did no such thing 
ever happen, as that the conscience of a man 5 by 
long habits of sin, might (as the scriptures assure 
it may) insensibly become hard ; — and like some 
tender parts of his body, by much stress and con- 
tinual hard usage, lose, by degrees, that nice sense 
and perception with which God and nature en- 
dowed it : — Did this never happen : — or was it 
certain that self-love could never hang the least 
bias upon the judgment y — or that the little inter- 
ests below could rise up and perplex the faculties 
of our upper regions, and encompass them about 
the clouda and thick darkness : — could no such 
thing as favour and affection enter this sacred 
court : — did Wit disdain to take a bribe in it : — 
or was ashamed to show its face as an advocate 
for an unwarrantable enjoyment : — or, lastly, 
were we assured that interest stood always un- 
concerned whilst the cause was hearing, — and that 
passion never got into the judgment-seat, and 
pronounced sentence in the stead ,of reason, which 
is always supposed to preside and determine upon 
the case ; — was this truly so, as the objection 
must suppose ; — no doubt then the religious and 
moral estate of a man would be exactly what he 
himself esteemed it : — and the guilt or innocence 
of every man's life could be known, in general, by 
no better measure, than the degrees of his own 
approbation and censure. 

" I own, in one case, whenever a man's con- 
science does accuse him (as it seldom errs on that 
side) that he is guilty ; and unless, in melancholy 
and hypochondriac cases, we may safely pronounce 



68 

upon it, that there is always sufficient grounds for 
the accusation. 

" But the converse of the proposition will not 
hold true ; — namely, that whenever there is guilt, 
the conscience must accuse : and if it does not, 
that a man is therefore innocent. — -This is not 
fact — So that the common consolation which 
some good christian or other is hourly administer- 
ing to himself, — that he thanks God his mind 
does not misgive him ; and that, consequently, he 
has a good conscience, because he has a quiet one, 
— is fallacious ; — and as current as the inference 
is, and as infallible as the rule appears at first 
sight ; yet when you look nearer to it, and try 
the truth of this rule upon plain facts, — you see 
it liable to so much error from a false applica- 
tion ;• — the principle upon which it goes so often 
prevented ; — the whole force of it lost, and some- 
times so vilely cast away, that it is painful to 
produce the common examples from human life, 
which confirm the account. 

" A man shall be vicious and utterly debauch- 
ed in his principles ; — exceptionable in his con- 
duct to the world ; shall live shameless in the open 
commission of a sin, which no reason or pretence 
can justify, — a sin by which, contrary to all the 
workings of humanity, he shall ruin forever the 
deluded partner of his guilt ; — rob her of her 
best dowry ; and not only cover her own head 
with dishonour, — -but involve a whole virtuous 
family in shame and sorrow for her sake. Surely, 
you will think conscience must lead such a man 
a troublesome life :— -he can have no rest night or 
day from its reproaches. 



69 

u Alas ! Conscience had something else to do 
all this time, than break in upon him ; as Elijah 
reproached the god Baal, — this domestic god was 
either talking, or pursuing ', or was in a journey, or 
peradventure he slept and could not be awoke. Per- 
haps He was going out in company with Honour 
to fight a duel ; to pay off some debt at play ;— 
or dirty annuity, the bargain of his lust : perhaps 
Conscience all this time was engaged at home, 
talking aloud against petty larceny, and executing 
vengeance upon some such puny crimes as his for- 
tune and rank of life secured him against all tempt- 
ation of committing ; so that he lives as a mer- 
rily," [If he was of our church, though, quoth 

Dr. Skp, he could not]- " sleeps as soundly in 

his bed ; and at last meets death as unconcerned- 
ly, perhaps much more so than a much better 

man." 

[All this is impossible with us, quoth Dr. Slop, 
turning to my father, — the case could not happen 

in our church. It happens in ours, however, 

replied my father, but too often. 1 own, quoth 

Dr. Slop, (struck a little with my father's frank ac- 
knowledgment) that a man in the Romish church 

may live as badly; but then he cannot easily die 

so. 'Tis little matter, replied my father, with 

an air of indifference, — how a rascal dies. 1 

mean, answered Dr. Slop, he would be denied the 

benefits of the last sacraments.—^ Pray, how ma* 

ny have you in all ? said my uncle Toby, — for I 

always forget. Seven, answered Dr. Slop. 

Humph ! said uncle Toby ; though not accented 
as a note of acquiescence, — but as an interjection 



70 

<af that particular species of surprize, when a man 
in looking into a drawer finds more of a thing 

than he expected Humph ! replied my 

uncle Toby, Dr. Slop, who had an ear, understood 
my uncle Toby as well as if he had wrote a whole 

volume against the seven sacraments. Humph ! 

replied Dr. Slop (stating my uncle Toby's argu- 
ment over again to him) Why, Sir, are 

there not seven cardinal virtues ? Seven mortal 

sins ? Seven golden candlesticks ? Seven 

heavens ? 'Tis more than I know, replied 

my uncle Toby. Are there not seven wonders 

of the world ? Seven days of the creation ? 

Seven planets ? Seven plagues ? 

That there are, quoth my father with a most af- 
fected gravity. But prithee, continued he, go on 
with the rest of thy characters, Trim.'] 

u Another is sordid, unmerciful," (here Trim 
waved his right hand) " a strait hearted, selfish 
wretch, incapable either of private friendship, or 
public spirit. Take notice how he passes by the 
widow and orphan in their distress, and sees all the 
miseries incident to human life without a sigh or 
a prayer." [An't please your honours, cried 
Trim, I think this a viler man than the other.] 

" Shall not conscience rise up and sting him on 

such occasions ? No ; thank God, there is no 

occasion. / pay every man his own ; — / have no 
fornication to answer to my conscience ; no faith- 
less vows or promises to make up ; / have de- 
bauched no man y s wife or child ; thank God, I am 
not as other men, adulterers, unjust, or even as this lib* 
ertine who stands before me. A third is crafty and 



71 

designing in his nature. View his whole life, — — 
*tis nothing but a cunning contexture of dark arts 
and unequitable subterfuges, basely to defeat the 

true intent of all laws, plain dealing, ajjd the 

safe enjoyment of our several properties. You 

will see such a one working out a frame of little 
designs upon the ignorance and perplexities of the 

poor and needy man : shall raise a fortune upon 

the inexperience of a youth, or the unsuspecting 
temper of his friend, who would have trusted him 
with his life. When old age comes on and repent- 
ance calls him to look back upon this black ac- 
count, and state it over again with his conscience — 
Conscience looks into theSTATUTES atLARGE; 

finds no express law broken by what he has 

done ; perceives no penalty or forfeiture of 

goods and chattels incurred ; sees no scourge 

waving over his head, or prison opening his gates 
upon him : What is there to affright his con- 
science ! Conscience has got safely entrenched 

behind the Letter of the Law, sits there invulner- 
able, fortified with Cases and Reports so strongly 
on all sides ; — that it is not preaching can dis- 
possess it of its hold." 

[The character of this last man, said Dr. SIop 9 
interrupting Trim, is more detestable than all the 

rest ; and seems to have been taken from some 

pettifogging lawyer amongst you : — amongst us, a 
man's conscience could not possibly continue so 

long blinded, three times in a year, at least, he 

must go to confession. Will that restore it to 

sight ? quoth my uncle Toby Go on, Trim* 

quoth my father. 'Tis very short, replied Trim* 



n 

1 wish it was longer, quoth my uncle Toby, 

for I like it hugely. Trim went on.] 

"A fourth man shall want even this refuge ; shall 
break through all the ceremony of slow chicane ; 

« scorns the doubtful workings of secret plots 

and cautious trains to bring about his purpose : — -— 
See the bare-faced villain, how he cheats, lies, 

perjures, robs, murders ! Horrid ! but in- 

deed much better was not to be expected, in the 

present ease the poor man was in the dark ! 

his Priest had got the keeping of his con- 
science ; and all he would let him know of it, 

was, that he must believe in the Pope ; go to 

Mass ; cross himself ; tell his beads ; be a 

good Catholic ; and that this, in all conscience, 
was enough to carry him to heaven. What ; — if 
he perjures ! — Why; — he had a mental reservation 

in it. But if he is so wicked and abandoned a 

wretch as you represent him ; if he robs,—- — 

if he stabs, will not conscience, on every such act, 
receive a wound itself ? — Aye, but the man has 
carried it to a confession ; the wound digests there, 
and will do well enough, and in a short time be 
quite healed up by absolution. O Popery ! what 

hast thou to answer for ! When, not content 

with the too many natural and fatal ways, through 
which the heart of man is every day thus treach- 
erous to itself above all things ; — thou hast wil- 
fully set open the wide gate of deceit before the 
face of this unwary traveller, too apt, God knows, 
to go astray of himself ; and confidently speak 
peace to himself, when there is no peace. 

" Of this the common instances which I have 
drawn out of life are too notorious to require much 



73 

evidence. If any one doubts the reality of them, 
or thinks it impossible for a man to be such a bub- 
ble to himself,- 1 must refer him a moment to 

his own reflections, and will then venture to trust 
my appeal with his own heart. 

" Let him consider, in how different a degree 
of detestation numbers of wicked actions stand 
there, though equally bad and vicious in their own 
natures ; — he will soon find, that such of them as 
strong inclination and custom have prompted him 
to commit, are generally dressed out and painted 
with all the false beauties which a soft and flat- 
tering hand can give them ; — and that the others, 
to which he feels no propensity, appear, at once, 
naked and deformed, surrounded with all the true 
circumstances of folly and dishonour. 

" When David surprised Saul sleeping in the 
cave, and cut off the skirt of his robe — ■ — we read 

his heart smote him for what he had done. 

But in the matter of Uriah, where a faithful and 
gallant servant, whom he ought to have loved and 
honoured, fell to make way for his lust, — whei e 
conscience had so much greater reason to take the 
alarm, his heart smote him not. A whole year 
had almost passed, from the first commission of 
that crime, to the time Nathan was sent to reprove 
him ; and we read not once of the least sorrow or 
compunction of heart which he testified during all 
that time, for what he had done. 

" Thus Conscience, this once able monitor, — - 
placed on high as a judge within us, and intended 
by our Maker as a just and equitable one too, — - 
by an unhappy train of causes and impediments* 

Cr 



takes often such imperfect cognizance of what 
passes, does its office so negligently, some- 
times so corruptly, that it is not to be trusted 

alone ; and therefore we find there is a necessity^ 
an absolute necessity, of joining another principle 
with it, to aid, if not govern, its determinations. 

" So that if you would form a just judgment of 
what is of infinite importance to you not to be 
misled in — — namely, in what degree of real merit 
you stand either as an honest man, an useful citi- 
zen, a faithful subject to your king, or a good 
servant to your God, — call in religion and moral- 
ity. —Look, what is written in the law of God ? 

— How readest thou ? — Consult calm reason, and 
the unchangeable obligations of justice and truth ; 
— what say they ? 

" Let Conscience determine the matter upon 
these reports ; — and then if thy heart condemns 
thee not, which is the case the Apostle suppos- 
es,— the rule will be infallible," — [Here Dr. Slop 
fell asleep^— " thou wilt have confidence towards 
God ; that is, have just grounds to believe the 
judgment thou hast passed upon thyself, is the 
judgment of God ; — and nothing else but an anti- 
cipation of that righteous sentence, which will be 
pronounced upon thee hereafter by that Being, 
to whom thou art finally to give an account of 
thy actions. 

" Blessed is the man, indeed, then, as the author 
of the book of Ecclesiasticus expresses it, who is 
not pricked with the multitude of his sins : Blessed is 
the man whose heart hath not condemned him ; wheth* 
er he be rich, or whether he be poor, if he have a 



good heart (a heart thus guided and informed) he 
shall at all times rejoice in a cheerful countenance / his 
mind shall tell him more than seven watchmen that 
sit above upon a tower on high "—[A. tower has no 
strength, quoth my uncle Toby, unless 'tis flank'd.l 

" In the darkest doubts it shall conduct 

him safer than a thousand casuists, and give the 
state he lives in a better security for his behaviour 
than all the clauses and restrictions put together? 

which law-makers are forced to multiply : ~ 

Forced, I say, as things stand ; human laws not 
being a matter of original choice, but of pure ne= 
cessity, brought in to fence against the mischiev- 
ous effects of those consciences which are no law 
unto themselves ; well intending by the many pro- 
visions made, that in all such corrupt and misguid- 
ed cases, where principles and the checks of con- 
science will not make us upright, — to supply their 
force, and, by the terrors of gaols and halters, 
oblige us to it." 

[I see plainly, said my father, that this sermon 
has been composed to be preached at the Temple, — 
or at some Assize. — I like the reasoning, and am 
sorry that Dr. Slop has fallen asleep before the 
time of his conviction : — for it is now clear that 
the Parson, as I thought at first, never insulted St. 
Paul in the least ; — nor has there been, brother, 
the least difference between them. A great mat- 
ter, if they had differed, replied my uncle Toby,—* 
the best friends in the world may differ some- 
times. — True,— brother Toby, quoth my father? 
shaking hands with him — we'll fill our pipes > 
brother, and then Trim shall go on 



76 

He read on as follows.] 

" To have the fear of God before our eyes, and, 
in our mutual dealings with each other, to govern 
our actions by the eternal measures of right and 
wrong : — The first of these will comprehend the 
duties of religion ; — the second those of morality, 
which are so inseparably connected together, that 
you cannot divide these two tables, even in imagin- 
ation, (though the attempt is often made in prac- 
tice) without breaking and mutually destroying 
them both. 

" I said the attempt is often made ; — and so it 
is ; — there being nothing more common than to 
see a man who has no sense at all of religion, and 
indeed has so much honesty as to pretend to none, 
who would take it as the bitterest affront, should 
you but hint at a suspicion on his moral character, 
or— imagine he was not conscientiously just and 
scrupulous to the uttermost mite. 

" When there is some appearance that it is so,-— 
though one is unwilling even to suspect the ap- 
pearance of so amiable a virtue as moral honesty, 
yet were we to look into the grounds of it, in the 
present case, I am persuaded we should find little 
reason to envy such a one the honour of his mo- 
tive. 

" Let him declaim as pompously as he chooses 
upon the subject, it will be found to rest upon no 
better foundation than either his interest, his pride, 
his ease, or some such little and changeable passion 
as will give us but small dependance upon his ac« 
lions in matters of great distress. 

" I will illustrate this by an example. 



77 

" I know the banker I deal with, or the phy- 
sician I usually call in" 

[There is no need, cried Dr. Slop, (waking) to 
call in any physician in this case.] 

« To be neither of them men of much 

religion ; I hear them make a jest of it every day, 
and treat all its sanctions with so much scorn as 
to put the matter past doubt. Well ^-notwith- 
standing this, I put my fortune into the hands of 

the one ; and, what is dearer still to me, I trust 

my life to the honest skill of the other. 

" Now let me examine what is my reason for 
this great confidence. Why, in the first place, I 
believe there is no probability that either of them 
will employ the power I put into their hands to 
my disadvantage. — I consider that honesty serves 
the purposes of this life : — I know their success 
in the world depends upon the fairness of then- 
characters. In a word, I am persuaded that they 
cannot hurt me, without hurting themselves more. 

" But put it otherwise ; namely, that interest 
lay, for once, on the other side : that a case should 
happen wherein the one, without stain to his re- 
putation, could secrete my fortune, and leave me 
naked in the world ; — or that the other could 
send me out of it, and enjoy an estate by my 

death, without dishonour to himself or his art : 

In this case, what hold have I of either of them ? 

Religion, the strongest of all motives, is out 

of the question ; — Interest, the next most power- 
ful motive in the world, is strongly against me :— 
What have I left to cast into the opposite scale to 

balance this temptation ? Alas ! I have noth- 

G2 



78 

ing, — but what is lighter than a bubble- — I must 
lie at the mercy of Honour, or some such ca- 
pricious principle — Strait security for two of the 
most valuable blessings ! — my property, and myself. 

" As therefore we can have no dependance up- 
on morality without religion : — -so, on the other 
hand, there is nothing better to be expected from 
religion without morality ; nevertheless, 'tis no 
prodigy to see a man whose real moral character 
stands very low, who yet entertains the highest 
notion of himself, in the light of a religious man. 

" He shall not only be covetous, revengeful, 
implacable, — but even wanting in points of com- 
mon honesty ; yet in as much as he talks aloud 
against the infidelity of the age, — is zealous for some 
points of religion,— goes to church twice a-day, — 
attends the sacraments, — and amuses himself with a 
few instrumental parts of religion, — shall cheat 
his conscience into a judgment, that for this he is 
a religious man, and has discharged truly his duty 
to God : and you will find that such a man, 
through force of this delusion, generally looks 
down with spiritual pride upon every other man 
who has less affectation of piety, though, per- 
haps, ten times more real honesty than himself. 

" This likewise is a sore evil under the sun : and, 
I believe, there is no one mistaken principle, which, 
for its time, has wrought more serious mischiefs. 

« — For a general proof of this, examine 

the history of the Romish church :" 

[Well, what can you make of that ? cried Dr. 
Slop.^—" see what scenes of cruelty, murder, 
i:apine, bloodshed," [They may thank their 



79 

own obstinacy, cried Dr. Slop"] " have all been 

sanctified by religion not strictly governed by mo- 
rality. 

" In how many kingdoms of the world has the 
crusading sword of this misguided Saint-errant, 
spared neither age, or merit, or sex, or condition ! 
— and, as he fought under the banners of a reli- 
gion which set him loose from justice and humani- 
ty, he shewed none ; mercilessly trampled upon 
both, — heard neither the cries of the unfortunate, 
nor pitied their distresses." 

[I have been in many a battle, an't please your 
honour, quoth Trim, sighing, but never in so mel- 
ancholy a one as this. — I would not have drawn 
a trigger in it against these poor souls, — to have 
been made a general officer. — Why ? what do you 
understand of the affair, said Dr. Slop, (looking 
towards Trim, with something more of contempt 
than the Corporal's honest heart deserved) — What 
do you know, friend, about this battle you talk 
of ? — I know, replied Trim, that I never refused 
quarter in my life to any man who cried out for 
it : — but to a woman, or a child, continued Trim, 
before I would level my musket at them, I would 

lose my life a thousand times. Here's a crown 

for thee, Trim, to drink with Oladiah to-night, 

quoth my uncle Toby* -God bless your honour, 

replied Trim, — I had rather these poor women 
and children had it. — Thou art an honest fellow, 
quoth my uncle Toby* — My father nodded his 
head, as much as to say, — and so he is. 

But prithee, Trim, said my father, make an end 5 
for I see thou hast but a leaf or two left. 

Corporal Trim read on.] 



80 

"If the testimony of past centuries in this mat- 
ter is not sufficient, — consider, at this instant, how 
the votaries of that religion are every day think- 
ing to do service and honour to God, by actions 
which are a dishonour and scandal to themselves. 

" To be convinced of this, go with me for a mo- 
ment into the prisons of the Inquisition." — [God 
help my poor brother Tom /] — " Behold Religion, 
with Mercy and Justice chained down under her 
feet, — there sitting ghastly upon a black tribunal, 
propped up with racks and instruments of tor- 
ment. Hark ! — hark ! — what a piteous groan ! " — 
[Here Trim's face turned as pale as ashes] — u See 
the melancholy wretch who uttered it !" — [Here 
the tears began to trickle down]— " just brought 
forth to undergo the anguish of a mock-trial, and 
endure the utmost pains that a studied system of 
cruelty has been able to invent !" — [D — n them 
all, quoth Trim, his colour returning into his face 

as red as blood.] " Behold this helpless victim 

delivered up to his tormentors, — his body so wast- 
ed with sorrow and confinement.' ' — [Oh ! 'tis 
my brother, cried poor Trim in a most passionate 
exclamation, dropping the sermon upon the 
ground, and clapping his hands together — I 
fear 'tis poor Tom. My father's and my uncle 
Toby's hearts yearned with sympathy for the 
poor fellow's distress ; even Slop himself ac- 
knowledged pity for him. Why, Trim, said 

my father, this is not a history, 'tis a sermon 

thou art reading ; prithee, begin the sentence 
again.] — " Behold this helpless victim delivered 
up to his tormentors, — his body so wasted with 



81 

sorrow and confinement, you will see every nerve 
and muscle as it suffers. 

" Observe the last movement of that horrid en- 
gine !" — [I would rather face a cannon, quoth 
Trim, stamping.] — " See what convulsions it has 
thrown him into ! — Consider the nature of the 
posture in which he now lies stretched, — what ex- 
quisite tortures he endures by it ! — 'Tis all nature 
can bear ! Good God ! see how it keeps his 
weary soul hanging upon his trembling lips !" — . 
[I would not read another line of it, quoth Trim, 

for all this world ; 1 fear, an't please your 

honours, all this is in Portugal, where my poor 
brother Tom is. I tell thee, Trim, again quoth my 
father, 'tis not an historical account — 'tis a de- 
scription. — 'Tis only a description, honest man, 
quoth Slop, there's not a word of truth in it. — 
That's another story, replied my father, — How- 
ever, as Trim reads it with so much concern, — 'tis 
cruelty to force him to go on with it. — Give me 
hold of the sermon, Trim, — I'll finish it for thee 
and thou may'st go. — I must stay and hear it too, 
replied Trim, if your honour will allow me ; — 
though I would not read it myself for a colonel's 

pay. Poor Trim I quoth my uncle Toby. — My 

father went on.] — 

" Consider the nature of the posture in which 
he now lies stretched, — what exquisite torture he 
endures by it !— 'Tis all nature can bear ! Good 
God ! See how it keeps his weary soul hanging 
upon his trembling lips — willing to take its leave, — 

but not suffered to depart ! Behold the *ww 

happy wretch led back to his cell !" 



82 

[Then thank God, however, quoth Trim f 

they have not killed him.] 

"See him dragged out of it again to meet the 
flames and the insults in his last agonies, which 
this principle, — this principle, that there can be 
religion without mercy, has prepared for him. The 
surest way to try the merit of any disputed notion 
is, to trace down the consequences such a notion 
has produced, and compare them with the spirit of 
Christianity ; — 'tis the short and decisive rule which 
our Saviour hath left us, for these and such like 

cases, and it is worth a thousand arguments 

By their fruits ye shall know them. 

" I will add no farther to the length of this 
sermon, than by two or three short and independ- 
ent rules deducible from it. 

" First, Whenever a man talks loudly against 
religion, always suspect that it is not his reason, 
but his passions, which have got the better of his 
Creed. A bad life and a good belief are disa- 
greeable and troublesome neighbours, and where 
they separate, depend upon it, 'tis for no other 
cause but quietness sake. 

" Secondly, When a man, thus represented, tells 
you in any particular instance, — That such a thing 
goes against his conscience, — always believe he 
means exactly the same thing, as when he tells you 

such a thing goes against his stomach ; a pre- 

sent want of appetite being generally the true cause 
of both. 

" In a word, — trust that man in nothing, who 
has not a Conscience in every thing. 



83 

" And, in your own case, remember this plain 
distinction, a mistake in which has ruined thou- 
sands, that your conscience is not a law : — No, 
God and reason made the law, and have placed 
conscience within you to determine, — not like an 
Asiatic Cadi, according to the ebbs and flows of 

his own passions but like a British Judge, in 

this land of liberty and good sense, who makes no 
new law, but faithfully declares that law which he 
knows already written." 

END OF THE SERMON. 

T. SHANDY, V. I. C 140. 



REMAINDER OF THE STORY OF TRIM'S 
BROTHER. 

AS Tom's place, an't please your honour, 

was easy and the weather warm it put 

him upon thinking seriously of settling himself in 
the world ; and as it fell out about that time, 
that a Jew, who kept a sausage-shop in the same 
street, had the ill luck to die of a stranguary, and 
leave his widow in possession of a rousing trade 

Tom thought (as every body in Lisbon was 

doing the best he could devise for himself) there 
could be no harm in offering her his service to 
carry it on : so without any introduction to the 
widow except that of buying a pound of sausages 

at her shop Tom set out counting the 

matter thus within himself, as he walked along, 
that let the worst come of it that could, he should 



84 

at least get a pound of sausages for their worth- 
but, if things went well, he should be set up : 
inasmuch as he should get not only a pound of 
sausages — but a wife — and sausage-shop, an't 
please your honour, into the bargain. 

Every servant in the family, from high to low, 
wished Tom success : and I can fancy, an't please 
your honour, I see him this moment, with his 
white dimity waistcoat and breeches, and hat a 
little o'one side, passing jollily along the street, 
swinging his stick, with a smile and a cheerful 
word for every body he met. 

But, alas ! Tom ! thou smilest no more, cried 
the Corporal, looking on one side of him upon the 
ground as if he apostrophised him in his dungeon. 

Poor fellow ! said my uncle Toby feelingly. 

He was an honest, light-hearted lad, an't please 
your honour, as ever blood warm'd 

Then he resembled thee, Trim, said my uncle 
To by j rapidly. 

The Corporal blushed down to his finger's 
ends — A tear of sentimental bashfulness — another 
of gratitude to my uncle Toby — and a tear of 
sorrow for his brother's misfortunes, started into 
his eye, and ran sweetly down his cheek together : 
my uncle Toby's kindled as one lamp does at an- 
other ; and taking hold of the breast of Trim's 
coat (which had been that of Le Fevre's,) as if 
to ease his lame leg, but, in reality, to gratify a 

finer feeling- he stood silent for a minute and 

a half ; at the end of which he took his hand 
away ; and the Corporal making a bow, went on 
with his story of has brother and tjie Jew's widow* 



85 

When Tom, an't please your honour, got to 
the shop, there was nobody in it but a poor negro 
girl, with a bunch of white feathers slightly tied 
to the end of a long cane, flapping away flies, not 
killing them. 

,r Fis a pretty picture, said my uncle Toby — -she 
had suffered persecution, Trim, and had learnt 
mercy — 

— -She was good, an't please your honour, from 
nature as well as from hardships ; and there are 
circumstances in the story of that poor friendless 
slut, that would melt a heart of stone, said Trim ; 
and some dismal winter's evening, when your hon- 
our is in the humour, they shall be told you with 
the rest of Tom's story, for it makes a part of it. 

Then do not forget, Trim, said my uncle Toby. 

A negro has a soul ? an't please your honour, 
said the Corporal, (doubtingly. ) 

I am not much versed, Corporal, quoth my 
uncle Toby, in things of that kind ; but I suppose 
God would not leave him without one, any more 
than thee or me. 

It would be putting one sadly over the head of 
another, quoth the Corporal. 

It would be so, said my uncle Toby. 

Why then, an't please your honour, is a black 
wench to be used worse than a white one ? v 

I can give no reason, said my uncle Toby 

—Only, cried the Corporal, shaking his 

head, because she has no one to stand up for her — 

'Tis that very thing, Trim, quoth my uncle 
Toby, — which recommends her to protection, and 
her brethren with her ; 'tis the fortune of war 
H 



86 

which has put the whip into our hands now — 

where it may be hereafter, Heaven knows \ -' 

but be it where it will, the brave, Trim, will not 
use it unkindly. 

God forbid, said the Corporal. 

Amen, responded my uncle Toby, laying his 
hand upon his heart. 

The Corporal returned to his story, and went 
on — but with an embarrassment in doing it, which 
here and there a reader in this world will not be 
able to comprehend ; for by the many sudden 
transitions all along from one kind and cordial 
passion to another, in getting thus far on his way. 
he had lost the sportable key of his voice, which 
gave sense and spirit to his tale ; he attempted 
twice to resume it, but could not please himself ; 
so giving a stout hem ! to rally back the retreat- 
ing spirits, and aiding nature at the same time 
with his left arm a kimbo on one side, and with 
his right a little extended, supported her on the 
other — the Corporal got as near the note as he 
could ; and in that attitude continued his story. 

As Tom, an't please your honour, had no busi- 
ness at that time with the Moorish girl, he passed 
on into the room beyond, to talk to the Jew's 
widow about love — and being, as I have told your 
honour, an open, cheary-hearted lad, with his 
character wrote in his looks and carriage, he took 
a chair, and without much apology, but with 
great civility at the same time, placed it close to 
her at the table, and sat down. 

Now a widow, an't please your honour, always 
chooses a second husband as unlike the first as she 



87 

can : so the affair was settled in her mind before 
Tom mentioned it. 

She signed the capitulation — and Tom sealed 
it ; and there was an end of the matter. 

T. SHANDY, VOL. IV. C. 64, 



THE BEGUIKE. 

I MUST here inform you, that this ser- 
vant of my uncle Toby's, who went by the name 
of Trim, had been a Corporal in my uncle's own 
company, — his real name was James Butler, — but 
having got the nick-name of Trim in the regi- 
ment, my uncle Toby, unless when he happened to 
be very angry with him, would never call him by 
any other name. 

The poor fellow had been disabled for the 
service, by a wound on his left knee by a musket 
bullet at the battle of Landen, which was two 
years before the affair of Namur ; — and as the 
fellow was well-beloved in the regiment, and a 
handy fellow into the bargain, my uncle Toby 
took him for his servant ; and of an excellent use 
was he, attending my uncle Toby in the camp and 
in his quarters, as a valet, groom, barber, cook, 
sempster, and nurse ; and indeed, from first to 
last, waited upon him and served him with great 
fidelity and affection. 

My uncle Toby loved the man in return, and 
what attached him more to him still, was the sim- 
ilitude of their knowledge For Corporal Trim 



88 

(for so, for the future, I shall call him,) by four 
years occasional attention to his master's discourse 
upon fortified towns, and the advantage of prying 
and peeping continually into his master's plans, 
&c. exclusive and besides what he gained Hobby- 
Horsically, as a body servant, Non Hobby- 
Horsical per se ; had become no mean profi- 
cient in the science ; and was thought, by the 
cook and chamber-maid, to know as much of the 
nature of stfong-holds as my uncle Toby himself. 

I have but one more stroke to give to finish 

Corporal Trim's character, and it is the only 

dark line in it. — The fellow loved to advise, — or 
rather to hear himself talk ; his carriage, how- 
ever, was so perfectly respectful, 'twas easy to 
keep him silent when you had him so ; but set 
his tongue a-going, — you had no hold of him— 
he was voluble ; — the eternal interlardings of 
your Honour, with the respectfulness of Corporal 
Trim's manner, interceding so strong in behalf of 
his elocution, — that though you might have been 

incommoded, you could not well be angry. 

My uncle Toby was seldom either the one or the 
other with him, — or, at least, this fault, in Trim, 
broke no squares with them. My uncle Toby, 

as I said, loved the man ; and besides, as he 

ever looked upon a faithful servant — but as an 
humble friend, — he could not bear to stop his 
mouth. Such was the Corporal Trim* 

So, thou wast once in love, Trim I said my 
uncle Toby, smiling - — 

Souse, replied the Corporal — over head and 
ears ; an't please your honour. Prithee when ? 



89 

where ? — and how came it to pass i — 1 never 
heard one word of it before, quoth my uncle 
Toby. — I dare say, answered Trim, that every 
drummer and Serjeant's son in the regiment knew 
of it. — It's high time I should — said my uncle 
Toby. 

Your honour remembers with concern, said the 
Corporal, the total route and confusion of our 
camp, and the army, at the affair of Landen ; 
every one was left to shift for himself ; and if it 
had not been for the regiments of Wyndham^ 
Lumley and Galivay, which covered the retreat 
over the bridge of Neerspeaken, the King* himself 
could scarce have gained it — he was pressed hard, 
as your honour knows, on every side of him — — 

Gallant mortal ! cried my uncle Toby 9 caught 
up with enthusiasm — -this moment, now that all 
is lost, I see him galloping across me, Corporal, 
to the left, to bring up the remains of the English 
horse along with him to support the right, and 
tear the laurel from Luxembourg's brows, if yet 
'tis possible — I see him with the knot of his 
scarf, just shot off, infusing fresh spirits into poor 
Galway's regiment — -riding along the line — then 
wheeling about, and charging Conti at the head 
of it — Brave ! brave, by Heaven ! cried my uncle 
Toby, he deserves a crown — As richly as a thief 
a halter, shouted Trim, 

My uncle Toby knew the Corporal's loyalty ! — 
otherwise the comparison was not at all to his 
mind — it did not altogether strike the Corporal's 

O A 

* King William. 

H2 



90 

fancy when he had made it — but it could not be 
recalled — so he had nothing to do but proceed. 

As the number of wounded was prodigious, 
and no one had time to think of any thing but his 
own safety— -Though Talmash, said my uncle 
Toby, brought off the foot with great prudence— 
But I was left upon the field, said the Corporal. — 
Thou wast so, poor fellow ! replied my uncle 
Toby — So that it was noon the next day, contin- 
ued the Corporal, before I was exchanged, and 
put into a cart with thirteen or fourteen more, in 

order to be conveyed to our hospital. The 

anguish of my knee, continued the Corporal, was 
excessive in itself ; and the uneasiness of the cart, 
with the roughness of the roads, which were terri- 
bly cut up— making bad still worse — every step 
was death to me : so that with the loss of blood, and 
the want of care -taking of me, and a fever I felt 
coming on besides — (Poor soul ! said my uncle 
Toby) all together, an't please your honour, was 
more than I could sustain. 

I was telling my sufferings to a young woman 
at a peasant's house where our cart, which was 
the last of the line, had halted ; they had helped 
me in, and the young woman had taken a cordial 
out of her pocket and dropp'd it upon some sugar, 
and seeing it had cheered me, she had given it me 

a second and a third time. So I was telling 

her, an't please your honour, the anguish I was 
in, and was saying it was so intolerable to me, 
that I had much rather lie down upon the bed, 
turning my face towards one which was in the 
corner of the room — and die, than go on—when^ 



91 

upon her attempting to lead me to it, I fainted 
away in her arms. She was a good soul ! as 
your honour, said the Corporal, wiping his eyes, 
will hear. 

I thought love had been a joyous thing, quoth 
my uncle Toby. 

'Tis the most serious thing, an't please your 
honour, (sometimes,) that is in the world. 

By the persuasion of the young woman, con- 
tinued the Corporal, the cart with the wounded 
men set off without me : she had assured them I 
should expire immediately if I was put into the 
cart. So, when I came to myself — I found my- 
self in a still, quiet cottage, with no one but the 
young woman, and the peasant and his wife. I 
was laid across the bed in the corner of the room, 
with my wounded leg upon the chair, and the 
young woman beside me, holding the corner of 
her handkerchief, dipp'd in vinegar, to my nose 
with one hand, and rubbing my temples with the 
other. 

I took her at first for the daughter of the 
peasant ; (for it was no inn) — so had offered her 
a little purse with eighteen florins, which my poor 
brother Tom (here Trim wip'd his eyes) had sent 
me as a token, by a recruit, just before he set out 
for Lisbon* 

The young woman called the old man and his 
wife into the room, to show them the money, in 
order to gain me credit for a bed, and what little 
necessaries I should want, till I should be in a 

condition to be got to the hospital Come, 

then ! said she, tying up the little purse, — I'll 



92 

be your banker — but as that office alone will not 
keep me employed, I'll be your nurse too. 

I thought by her manner of speaking this, as 
well as by her dress, which I then began to con- 
sider more attentively — that the young woman 
could not be the daughter of the peasant. She 
was in black down to her toes, with her hair con- 
cealed under a cambric border, laid close to her 
forehead : she was one of those kind of Nuns, 
an't please your honour, of which your honour 
knows there are a great many in Flanders , which 
they let loose. — By the description, Trim, said my 
uncle Toby, I dare say she was a young Beguine> 
of which there are none to be found any where 
but in the Spanish Netherlands— except at Amster^ 
dam — they differ from Nuns in this, that they can 
quit their cloister if they choose to marry : they 
visit and take care of the sick by profession — I 
had rather, for my own part, they did it out of 
good-nature. 

The young Begaine, continued the Corporal, 
had scarce given herself time to tell me "she 
would be my nurse," when she hastily turned 
about to begin the office of one, and prepare some- 
thing for me — and in a short time — -though I 
thought it a long one — she came back with flan- 
nels, &c. &c. and having fomented my knee 
soundly for a couple of hours, and made me a 

thin bason of gruel for my supper she wished 

me rest, and promised to be with me early in the 
morning — — —She wished me, an't please your 
honour, what was not to be had. My fever ran 
very high that night — -her figure made sad dis* 



93 

turbance within me— -I was every moment cutting 
the world in two — to give her half of it — and 
every moment was I crying, that I had nothing 
but a knap-sack and eighteen florins to share with 
her — The whole night long was the fair Beguine, 
like an angel, close by my bed-side, holding back 
my curtain, and offering me cordials — and I was 
only awakened from my dream by her coming 
there at the hour promised, and giving them in 
reality. In truth, she was scarce ever from me ; 
and so accustomed was I to receive life from her 
hands, that my heart sickened, and I lost colour 
when she left the room. — Love, an't please your 
honour, is exactly like war in this ; that a soldier^ 
though he has escaped three weeks complete 
o' Saturday night — may nevertheless be shot 
through his heart on Sunday morning —It hap- 
pened so here, an't please your honour, with this 
difference only — that it was on Sunday, in the 
afternoon, when I fell in love all at once with a 
sisserara — it burst upon me, an't please your hon- 
our, like a bomb— scarce giving me time to say 
" God bless me !" 

I thought, Trim, said my uncle Toby, a man 
never fell in love so very suddenly. 

Yes, an't please your honour, if he is in the way 
of it, — replied Trim. 

I prithee, quoth my uncle Toby, inform me how 
this matter happened. 

— With all pleasure, said the Corporal, making 
a bow. I had escaped, continued the Corporal, 
all that time, from falling in love, and had gone 
on to the end of the chapter, had it not been pre*- 



94 

destined otherwise there is no 

fate. It was on a Sunday, in the afternoon, as I 
told your honour. The old man and his wife had 
walked out — Every thing was still and hush as 
midnight about the house. 

There was not so much as a duck or a duck- 
ling about the yard ; when the fair Beguine came 
to see me. 

My wound was then in a fair way of doing 
well — the inflammation had been gone off for 
some time ; but it was succeeded with an itching 
both above and below my knee, so insufferable 5 
that I had not shut my eyes the whole night for 
it. Let me see it, said she, kneeling down upon 
the ground parallel to my knee, and laying her 
hand upon the part below it, — it only wants rub- 
bing a little, said the Beguine ; so covering it with 
the bed-clothes, she began with the fore-finger of 
her right hand to rub under my knee, guiding her 
fore^finger backwards and forwards by the edge 
of the flannel which kept on the dressing. 

In five or six minutes I felt slightly the end of 
her second finger — and presently it was laid flat 
with the other ; and she continued rubbing in that 
way round and round for a good while : it then 

came into my head that I should fall in love 

I blushed when I saw how white a hand she had 
I shall never, an't please your honour, be- 
hold another hand so white whilst I live. 

The young Beguine, continued the Corporal, 
perceiving it was of great service to me — from 
rubbing, for some time, with two fingers — pro- 
ceeded to rub at length with three — till, by little 



95 

and little 4 , she brought down the fourth, and then 
rubbed with her whole hand : I will never say 
another word, an't please your honour, upon hands 
again — but it was softer than satin, 

Prithee, Trim, commend it as much as thou 
wilt, said my uncle Toby ; I shall hear thy story 
with the more delight — The Corporal thanked 
his master most unfeignedly ; but having nothing 
to say upon the Beguine's hand but the same thing 
over again — he proceeded to the effects of it. 

The fair Beguine, said the Corporal, continued 
rubbing with her whole hand under my knee < > » 
till I feared her zeal would weary her. — " I 
would do a thousand times more," said she, " for 
the love of Christ." As she continued rubbing 
— I felt it spread from under her hand, an't please 
your honour, to every part of my frame. 

The more she rubbed, and the longer strokes 
she took — the more the fire kindled in my veins — ■ 
till at length, by two or three strokes longer than 
the rest — my passion rose to the highest pitch — I 

seized her hand And then thou clapped' st it. 

to thy lips, Trhn> said my uncle Toby — and madest 
a speech. 

Whether the Corporal's amour terminated pre- 
cisely in the way my uncle Toby described it, is 
not material ; it is enough that it contained in it 
the essence of all the love romances which ever 
have been wrote since the beginning of the world. 

T. SHANDY, VOL. IV. CHAP. 43. 



36 



THE HOBBY-HORSE. 

NAY, if you come to that, Sir, have not 
the wisest of men in all ages, not excepting Solo- 
mon himself, — have they not had their Hob by- 
Horses ; — their running-horses, — their coins and 
their cockle-shells, their drums and their trumpets, 

their fiddles, their pallets, their maggots and 

their butterflies ? and so long as a man rides his 
Hobby-Horse peaceably and quietly along the 
king's high-way, and neither compels you or me 
to get up behind him, — pray, Sir, what have ei- 
ther you or I to do with it ! 

De gustibus non est dlsputandum ; that is, 

there is no disputing against Hoeby-Horses ; 
and for my part, I seldom do ; nor could I with 
any sort of grace, had I been an enemy to them 
at the bottom : for happening at certain intervals 
and changes of the moon, to be both fiddler and 

painter, according as the fly stings : be it 

known to you, that I keep a couple of pads my- 
self, upon which, in their turns, (nor do I care 
who knows it) I frequently ride out and take the 
air ; — though sometimes, to my shame be it spok- 
en, I take somewhat longer journies than what a 
wise man would think altogether right. — -But the 
truth is, — I am not a wise man ; — and besides, am 
a mortal of so little consequence in the world, it is 
not much matter what I do : so I seldom fret or 
fume at all about it : nor does it much disturb my 
rest, when I see such great Lords and tall person- 
ages as hereafter follow ; — such, for instance, as 
my Lord A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, I, K, L, 
M, N, O, P, Oj and so on, all of a row, mounted 



97 

upon their several horses ; some with large stir- 
rups, getting on in a more grave and sober pace ; 
- — others, on the contrary, tucked up to their very- 
chins, with whips across their mouths, scouring 
and scampering it away like so many little party- 
coloured devPs astride a mortgage,— and as if 
some of them were resolved to break their necks. 

So much the better — say I to myself ; for 

in case the worst should happen, the world may 
make a shift to do excellently well without them ; 

and for the rest, why God speed them 

— — e'en let them ride on without opposition 
from me ; for were their Lordships unhorsed this 
very night — 'tis ten to one but that many of them 
would be worse mounted by one half before to- 
morrow morning. 

Not one of these instances therefore can be 
said to break in upon my rest. But there is aa 
instance, which I own puts me off my guard, and 
that is, when I see one born for great actions, and, 
what is still more for his honour, whose nature 
ever inclines him to good ones ; when I behold 
such a one, my Lord, like yourself, whose princi- 
ples and conduct are as generous and noble as his 
blood, and whom, for that reason, a corrupt world 
cannot spare one moment ;— when I see such a 
one, my Lord, mounted, though it is but for a 
minute beyond the time which my love to my; 
country has prescribed to him, and my zeal for 
his glory wishes, — then, my Lord, I cease to be 
a philosopher, and in the first transport of an hon- 
est impatience, I wish the Hobby-Horse, with 
all ha3 fraternity, at the Devil. 

T. SHANDY? V(5L. I. CHAP.? & 8. 

I 



98 



MARIA. 



THEY were the sweetest notes I 

ever heard ; and I instantly let down the fore- 
glass to hear them more distinctly — 'Tis Maria, 
said the postillion, observing I was. listening — — 
Poor Maria* continued he, (leaning his body on 
one side to let me see her, for he was in a line be- 
twixt us,) is sitting upon a bank, playing her ves- 
pers upon her pipe, with her little goat beside her. 

The young fellow uttered this with an accent 
and a look so perfectly in tune to a feeling heart, 
that I instantly made a vow, I would give him a 
four-and-twenty sous piece, when I got to Mou- 
lt ties. 

And who is poor Maria P said I. 

The love and pity of all the villages around us, 
said the postillion — it is but three years ago, that 
the sun did not shine upon so fair, so quick-wit- 
ted and amiable a maid ; and better fate did Ma- 
ria deserve, than to have her banns forbid by the 
intrigues of the curate of the parish, who publish- 
ed them ■ 

He was going on, when Maria* who had made 
a short pause, put the pipe to her mouth, and be- 
gan the air again— they were the same notes ; — 
yet were ten times sweeter ; it is the evening ser- 
vice to the Virgin, said the young man — but who 

has taught her to play it or how she came by 

her pipe, no one knows ; we think that Heaven 
has assisted her in both ; for ever since she has 
been unsettled in her mind, it seems her only con- 
solation— — she has never once had the pipe out 



99 

of her hand, but plays that service upon it almost 
night and day. 

The postillion delivered this with so much dis- 
cretion and natural eloquence, that I could not 
help decyphering something in his face above his 
condition, and should have sifted out his history, 
had not poor Maria's taken such full possession 
of me. 

We had got up by this time almost to the bank 
where Maria was sitting ; she was in a thin white 
jacket, with her hair, all but two tresses, drawn 
up into a silk net, with a few olive leaves twisted 
a little fantastically on one side- — she was beauti- 
ful ; and if ever I felt the full force of an honest 
heart-ach, it was the moment I saw her. 

1 God help her ! poor damsel ! above 

a hundred masses, said the postillion, have been 
said in the several parish churches and convents 
around for her ; — but without effect ; we have 
still hopes, as she is sensible for short intervals, that 
the Virgin will at last restore her to herself ; but 
her parents, who know her best, are hopeless upon 
that score, and think her senses are lost for ever. 

As the postillion spoke this, Maria made a ca- 
dence so melancholy, so tender and querulous, 
that I sprang out of the chaise to help her, and 
found myself sitting betwixt her and her goat be- 
fore I relapsed from my enthusiasm. 

Maria looked wistfully for some time at me, 
and then at her goat — and then at me— and then 
at her goat again, and so on, alternately 

— Well, Maria, said I softly — what resent 
blance do you find ? 



100 

I do entreat the candid reader to believe me, 
that it was from the humblest conviction of what 
a beast man is, — that I asked the question ; and 
that I would not have let fallen an unseasonable 
pleasantry in the venerable presence of Misery, to 
be entitled to all the wit that ever Rabelais scat- 
tered — and yet I own my heart smote me, and 
tfiat I so smarted at the very idea of it, that I 
swore I would set up for Wisdom, and utter 
grave sentences the rest of my days — — and never 
— never attempt again to commit mirth with man, 
Woman, or child, the longest day I had to live. 

As for writing nonsense to them — I believe, 
there was a reserve — but that I leave to the world. 

Adieu, Maria ! — adieu, poor hapless damsel ! 
some time, but not now, I may hear thy sorrows 
from thy own lips — but I was deceived ; for that 
moment she took her pipe, and told me such a 
tale of woe with it, that I rose up, and with brok* 
en and irregular steps, walk'd softly to my chaise. 

T. SHANDY, VOL. IV. CHAP. 83. 



MARIA. 

MOULINES. 

I NEVER felt what the distress of plen- 
ty was in any one shape till now—- — to travel it 
through the Bourbonnois, the sweetest part of 

France in the heyday of the vintage, when 

Nature is pouring her abundance into every one's- 

lap, and every eye is lifted up a journey, 

through each step of which Music beats time %® 



101 

Labour, and all her children are rejoicing as they 

carry in their clusters to pass through this 

with my affections flying out, and kindling at ev- 
ery group before me and every one of them 

was pregnant with adventures. 

Just Heaven ! it would fill up twenty 

volumes and alas ! I have but a few small 

pages of this to croud it into — and half these 

must be taken up with the poor Maria my friend 
Mr. Shandy met with near Motilities. 

The story he had told of that disordered maid 
affected me not a little in the reading ; but w T hen 
I got within the neighbourhood where she lived, 
it returned so strong into my mind, that I could 
not resist; an impulse which prompted me to go 
half a league out of the road, to the village where 
her parents dwelt, to inquire after her. 

'Tis going, I own, like the Knight of the Woe- 
ful Countenance, in quest of melancholy adven- 
tures but I know not how it is, but I am nev- 
er so perfectly conscious of the existence of a soul 
within me, as when I am entangled in them. 

The old mother came to the door ; her looks 
told me the story before she opened her mouth — , 
She had lost her husband ; he had died, she said, 
of anguish for the loss of Maria's senses, about a 
month before— • She had feared at first, she added, 
that it would have plundered her poor girl of what 
little understanding was left — but, on the contrary, 
it had brought her more to herself— still she could 
not rest — her poor daughter, she said, crying, was 
wandering somewhere about the road — - 
12 



102 

— Why does my pulse beat languid as I write 
this ; and what made La Fleur, whose heart seem- 
ed only to be tuned to joy, to pass the back of his 
hand twice across his eyes, as the woman stood 
and told it ? I beckoned to the postillion to turn 
back into the road. — 

When we had got within half a league of Mou? 
lines, at a little opening of the road leading to a 
thicket, I discovered poor Maria sitting under a 

poplar she was sitting with her elbow in her 

lap, and her head leaning on one side within her 
hand ; — a small brook ran at the foot of the tree. 

I bid the postillion go on with the chaise to 
Moulines, and La Fleur to bespeak my supper — 
and that I would walk after him. 

She was dressed in white, and much as rny friend 
described her, except that her hair hung loose, 
which before was twisted in a silk net. — She 
had, superadded likewise to her jacket, a pale-green 
ribband, which fell across her shoulder to the 
waist ; at the end of which hung her pipe. — Her 
goat had been as faithless as her lover ; and she 
had got a little dog in lieu of him, which she had 
kept tied by a string to her girdle : as I looked 
at her dog, she drew him towards her with the 
string — " Thou shalt not leave me Sylvio 9 " said 
she. I looked in Maria's eyes, and saw she was 
thinking more of her father than of her lover or 
her little goat, for as she uttered them, the tears 
trickled dowa her cheeks, 

I sat down close by her ; and Maria let me 
wipe them away, as they fell, with my handker- 
chief,* — : I then steep'd it in my own — and then \n 



103 

Iter's — and then in mine — and then I wip'd her's 
again — and as I did it, I felt such undescribable 
emotions within me, as I am sure could not be 
accounted for from any combinations of matter 
and motion. 

I am positive I have a soul ; nor can all the 
books with which materialists have pestered the 
world ever convince me to the contrary. 

When Maria had come a little to herself, I 
asked her if she remembered a pale, thin person of 
a man, who had sat down betwixt her and her 
goat about two years before ? She said, she was 
» unsettled much at that time, but remembered it 
upon two accounts — that, ill as she was, she saw 
the person pitied her ; and next, that her goat 
had stolen his handkerchief, and she had beat him 
for the theft — she had washed it, she said, in the 
brook, and kept it ever since in her pocket to 
restore it to him in case she should ever see him 
again, which, she added, he had half promised 
her. As she told me this, she took the handker- 
chief out of her pocket to let me see it ; she had 
folded it up neatly in a couple of vine leaves, tied 
round with a tendril — — on opening it, I saw an 
S marked in one of the corners. 

She had since that, she told me, strayed as far 
as Rome, and walk'd round St. Peter's once — and 
return'd back — that she found her way alone across 
the Appennines — had travelled over all Lombardy 
without money — and through the flinty roads of 
Savoy without shoes — how she had borne it, and 
how she had got supported, she could not tell — 
but God tempers the windy said Maria, to the 

SHORN LAMB. 



104 

Shorn, indeed ! and to the quick, said I ; and 
wast thou in my own land, where I have a cottage, 
I would take thee to it, and shelter thee : thou 
shouldst eat of my own bread, and drink of my 
own cup — I would be kind to thy Sylvlo — in all 
thy weaknesses and wanderings I would seek after 
thee, and bring thee back — when the sun went 
down, I would say my prayers ; and when I had 
done, thou shouldst play thy evening song upon 
thy pipe, nor would the incense of my sacrifice be 
worse accepted for entering Heaven along with 
that of a broken heart. 

Nature melted within me, as I uttered this ; and 
Maria observing, as I took out my handkerchief, 
that it was steep'd too much already to be of use, 
would needs go wash it in the stream — and where 
will you dry it, Maria P said I — I will dry it in 
my bosom, said she, — 'twill do me good. 

And is your heart still so warm, Maria P said I. 

I touch'd upon the string on which hung all her 
sorrows — she looked with wistful disorder for 
some time in my face ; and then, without saying 
any thing, took her pipe and play'd her service to 
the Virgin — The string I had touched ceased to 
vibrate — in a moment or two Maria returned to 
herself — let her pipe fall — and rose up. 

And where are you going, Maria P said I. — 
She said, to Motilities. — Let us go, safld I, togeth- 
er. — Maria put her arm within mine, and length- 
ening the string, to let the dog follow — in that 
order we entered Moullnes. 

Though I hate salutations and greetings in the 
market-place, yet when we got into the middle of 



105 

this, I stopp'd to take my last look and last fare- 
well of Maria. 

Maria, though not tall, was nevertheless of the 
first order of fine forms — affliction had touched her 
looks with something that was scarce earthly — 
still she was feminine — and so much was there 
about her of all that the heart wishes, or the eye 
looks for in woman, that could the traces be ever 
worn out of her brain, and those of Eliza's out of 
mine, she should not only eat of my bread and drink 
of my own cup, but Maria should lie in my bosom, 
and be unto me as a daughter. 

Adieu, poor luckless maiden ! imbibe the 

oil and wine which the compassion of a stranger, 
as he journey eth on his -way, now pours into thy 

wounds. rThe Being who has twice bruised 

thee, can only bind them up for ever. 

SENT. JOURNEY, PAGE 217* 



THE PARSON'S HORSE. 

BE it known then, that, for about five 
years before the date of the midwife's licence, of 
which you have had so circumstantial an account, 
^-the parson we have to do with had made him- 
self a country -talk by a breach of all decorum, 
which he had committed against himself, his sta- 
tion, and his office ; and that was in never appear- 
ing better, or otherwise mounted, than upon a lean, 
sorry, jackass of a horse, value about one pound 
fifteen shillings ; who, to shorten all description of 



106 

him, was full brother to Rosinante, as far as simil- 
itude congenial could make him ; for he answered 
his description to a hair-breadth in every thing, — 
except that I do not remember 'tis any where said, 
that Rosinante was broken-winded ; and that more- 
over, Rosinante, as is the happiness of most Spanish 
Horses, fat or lean, — was undoubtedly a horse at 
all points. 

I know very well that the Hero's horse was 
a horse of chaste deportment, which may have 
given grounds for the contrary opinion : But it 
is as certain at the same time, that Rosinante' s 
continency (as may be demonstrated from the ad- 
venture of the Tanguesian carriers) proceeded 
from no bodily defect or cause whatsoever, but 
from the temperance and orderly current of his 
blood. — And let me tell you, Madam, there is a 
great deal of very good chastity in the world, in be- 
half of which you could not say more for your life. 

Let that be as it may, as my purpose is to do 
exact justice to every creature brought upon the 
stage of this dramatic work, — I could not stifle 
this distinction in favour of Don Quixote's horse ; 
— in all other points, the parson's horse, I say, 
was just such another — for he was as lean, and as 
lank, and as sorry a jade, as Humility herself 
could have bestrode. 

In the estimation of here and there a man of 
weak judgment, it was greatly in the parson's 
power to have helped the figure of this horse of 
his, — for he was master of a very handsome demi- 
peak'd saddle, quilted on the seat with green 
plush, garnished with a double row of silver-head- 



107 

ed studs, and noble pair of shining brass stirrups, 
with a housing altogether suitable, of grey super- 
fine cloth, with an edging of black lace, terminat- 
ing in a deep, black, silk fringe, poudre d'or, — 
all which he had purchased in the pride and prime 
of his life ; together with a grand embossed 
bridle, ornamented at all points as it should be. — 
But not caring to banter his beast, he had hung 
all these up behind his study door : — and, in lieu 
of them, had seriously befitted him with just such 
a bridle and such a saddle, as the figure and value 
of such a steed might well and truly deserve. 

In the several sallies about his parish, and in 
the neighbouring visits to the gentry, who lived 
around him, — you will easily comprehend, that 
the parson, so appointed, would both hear and see 
enough to keep his philosophy from rusting. To 
speak the truth, he never could enter a village, 
but he caught the attention of both old and young. 

Labour stood still as he passed, the 

bucket hung suspended in the middle of the well 

the spinning-wheel forgot its round, even 

chuck-farthing and shuffle-cap themselves stood 
gaping till he had got out of sight ; and as his 
movement was not of the quickest, he had gener- 
ally time enough upon his hands to make his ob- 
servations, — to hear the groans of the serious, — 
and the laughter of the light-hearted ; — all which 
he bore with excellent tranquillity. — His charac- 
ter was, — he loved a jest in his heart — and as he 
saw himself in the true point of ridicule, he would 
say, he could not be angry with others for seeing 
him in a light, in which he so strongly saw him- 



108 

self. So that to his friends, who knew his foible 
was not the love of money, and who therefore 
made the less scruple in bantering the extrava- 
gance of his humour, instead of giving the true 
cause, — he chose rather to join in the laugh against 
himself ; and as he never carried one single ounce 
of flesh upon his own bones, being altogether as 
spare a figure as his beast, — he would sometimes 
insist upon it, that the horse was as good as the 
rider deserved ; — that they were, centaur-like, — 
both of a piece. At other times, and in other 
moods, when his spirits were above the temptation 
of false wit, — he would say, he found himself 
going off fast in a consumption ; and, with great 
gravity, would pretend, he could not bear the 
sight of a fat horse, without dejection of heart, 
and a sensible alteration in his pulse ; and that he 
had made choice of the lean one he rode upon, 
not only to keep himself in countenance, but in 
spirits. 

At different times he would give fifty humor- 
ous and apposite reasons for riding a meek-spirited 
jade of a broken-winded horse, preferably to one 
of mettle ; — for on such a one he could sit me- 
chanically, and meditate as delightfully de vanitate 
mundi et fugd saculi, as with the advantage of a 
death's head before him ; — that, in all other ex- 
ercitations, he could spend his time, as he rode 
slowly along, — to as much account as in his 
study ; — that he could draw up an argument in 
his sermon, or a hole in his breeches, as steadily on 
the one as in the other ; — that brisk trotting and 
slow argumentation, like wit and judgment, were 



109 

two incompatible movements.— But that upon his 
steed he could unite and reconcile every thing, — 
he could compose his sermon- — he could compose 

his cough,- and, in case nature gave a call that 

way, he could likewise compose himself to sleep. — 
In short, the parson, upon such encounters, would 
assign any cause but the true cause — and he with- 
held the true one, only out of a nicety of temper, 
because he thought it did honour to him. 



SENSIBILITY. 

* —DEAR Sensibility ! source inex- 

hausted of all that's precious in our joys, or costly 
in our sorrows ! thou chainest thy martyr down 
upon the bed of straw* — and 'tis thou who liftest 

him up to Heaven eternal fountain of our 

feelings ! — 'tis here I trace thee — and this is thy 
i6 divinity which stirs within me" — not, that in 
some sad and sickening moments, " my soul shrinks 
back upon her self y and startles at destruction' 9 — mere 
pomp of words ! — but that I feel some generous 

joys and generous cares beyond myself- all 

comes from thee, great — great sensor. ium of 
the world ! which vibrates, if a hair of our heads 
but fall upon the ground, in the remotest desert 
of thy creation. — Touched with thee, Eugenius 
draws my curtain when I languish — —hears my 
tale of symptoms, and blames the weather for the 
disorder of his nerves. Thou giv'st a portion of 
it sometimes to the roughest peasant who traverses 
K 



110 

the bleakest mountains— he finds the lacerated 
lamb of another's flock — this moment I beheld 
him leaning with his head against his crook, with 
piteous inclination looking down upon it ! — Oh ! 
had I come one moment sooner ! — it bleeds to 

death — his gentle heart bleeds with it 

Peace to thee, generous swain ! I see thou 
walkest off with anguish — but thy joys shall bal- 
ance it— for happy is thy cottage — and happy is 
the sharer of it — and happy are the lambs which 
sport about you. 

sent. jour. p. 226. 



THE SUPPER. 

A SHOE coming loose from the fore -foot 
of the thill-horse, at the beginning of the ascent 
of mount Taurira<i the postillion dismounted, twist- 
ed the shoe off, and put it in his pocket : as the 
ascent was of five or six miles, and that horse our 
main dependance, 1 made a point of having the 
shoe fastened on again, as well as we could ; but 
the postillion had thrown away the nails, and the 
hammer in the chaisebox being of no great use 
without them, I submitted to go on. 

He had not mounted half a mile higher, when 
coming to a flinty piece of road, the poor devil 
lost a second shoe, and from off his other fore-foot. 
1 then got out of the chaise in good earnest ; and 
seeing a house about a quarter of a mile to the 
left-hand, with a>g4?eat deal to do, I prevailed up- 



Ill 

on the postillion to turn up to it. The look of 
the house, and of every thing about it, as we drew 
nearer, soon reconciled me to the disaster. It 
was a little farm-house, surrounded with about 
twenty acres of vineyard, about as much corn — 
and close to the house, on one side, was a potagerie 
of an acre and an half full of every thing which 
could make plenty in a French peasant's house— 
and on the other side was a little wood which fur- 
nished wherewithal to dress it. It was about 
eight in the evening when I got to the house— so 
I left the postillion to manage his point as he could 
•—and for mine, I walked directly into the house. 

The family consisted of an old grey-headed 
man and his wife, with five or six sons and sons* 
in-law, and their several wives, and a joyous gen- 
ealogy out of them. 

They were all sitting down together to their 
lentil-soup ; a large wheaten loaf was in the mid- 
dle of the table ; and a flagon of wine at each end 
of it promised joy through the stages of the re- 
past — 'twas a feast of love. 

The old man rose up to meet me, and with a 
respectful cordiality would have me sit down at 
the table : my heart was set down the moment I 
entered the room ; so I sat down at once like a 
son of the family ; and to invest myself in the 
character as speedily as I could, I instantly bor- 
rowed the old man's knife, and taking up the 
loaf, cut myself a hearty luncheon ; and as I did 
it, I saw a testimony in every eye, not only of an 
honest welcome, but of a welcome mix'd with 
thanks that I had not seem'd to doubt it. 



112 

Was it this : or tell me, Nature, what else it 
was that made this morsel so sweet — and to what 
magic I owe it, that the draught I took of their 
flagon was so delicious with it, that they remain 
upon my palate to this hour ? 

If the supper was to my taste — the grace which 
followed was much more so. 



THE GRACE. 

WHEN supper was over, the old man 
gave a knock upon the table with the haft of his 
knife, to bid them prepare for the dance : the 
moment the signal was given, the women and 
girls ran all together into the back apartment to 
tie up their hair—and the young men to the door 
to wash their faces, and change their sabots : and 
in three minutes every soul was ready upon a lit- 
tle esplanade before the house to begin — The old 
man and his wife came out last, and placing me 
betwixt them, sat down upon a sopha of turf by 
the door. 

The old man had some fifty years ago been no 
mean performer upon the vielle — and, at the age 
he was then of, touched it well enough for the 
purpose. His wife sung now and then a little to 
the tune — then intermitted — and joined her old 
man again, as their children and grand-children 
danced before them. 

It was not till the middle of the second dance, 
when, for some pauses in the movement wherein 



113 

they all seem'd to look up, I fancied I could dis- 
tinguish an elevation of spirit different from that 
which is the cause or the effect of simple jollity. — - 
In a word, I thought I beheld Religion mixing in 
the dance — but as I had never seen her so engaged, 
I should have look'd upon it now as one of the 
illusions of an imagination which is eternally mis- 
leading me, had not the old man, as soon as the 
dance ended, said, that this was their constant 
way : and that all his life long, he made it a rule, 
after supper was over, to call out his family to 
dance and rejoice ! believing, he said, that a 
cheerful and contented mind was the best sort of 
thanks to Heaven that an illiterate peasant could 
pay. 

— Or a learned prelate either, said I. 

SENT. JOURNEY, P. 227* 



ILLUSION. 

SWEET pliability of man's spirit, that 
can at once surrender itself to illusions, which 
cheat expectation and sorrow of their weary mo- 
ments ! — Long — long since had ye numbered out 
my days, had 1 not trod so great a part of them 
upon this enchanted ground ; when my way is 
too rough for my feet, or too steep for my strength, 
I get off it to some smooth velvet path which fan- 
cy has scattered over with rosebuds of delight \ 
and having taken a few turns in it, come back 
strengthen'd and refreshed — When evils press sore 
K2 



114 

upon me, and there is no retreat from them in the 

world, then I take a new course 1 leave it 

and as I have a clearer idea of the Elysian fields 
than I have of heaven, I force myself, like JEneas, 
into them — I see him meet the pensive shade of 
his forsaken Dido — and wish to recognize it — I 
see the injured spirit wave her head, and turn off 
silent from the author of her miseries and dishon- 
ours — I lose the feelings of myself in her's — and 
those affections which were wont to make me 
mourn for her when I was at school. 

Surely this is not walking in a vain shadow — nor 
does man disquiet himself in vain by it — he oftener 
does so in trusting the issue of his commotions to 
reason only — I can safely say for myself, I was 
never able to conquer any one single bad sensation 
in my heart so decisively, as by beating up as fast 
as I could for some kindly and gentle sensation to 
fight it upon its own ground. 

SENT. JOURNEY, P. 165. 



LE DIMANCHE. 

IT was Sunday ; and when Le Fleur came 
in the morning, with my coffee and roll and but- 
ter, he had got himself so gallantly arrayed, I 
scarce knew him. 

I had covenanted at Montrciul to give him a new 
hat with a silver button and loop, and four Louis- 
d'ors pour s'adoniser, when we got to Paris ; and 
the poor fellow, to do him justice, had done won- 
ders with it. 



115 

He had bought a bright, clean, good scarlet 
coat, and a pair of breeches of the same — They 
were not a crown worse, he said, for the wearing 

— I wish'd him hang'd for telling me. They 

look'd so fresh, that I knew the thing could not 
be done, yet I would rather have imposed upon 
my fancy, with thinking I had bought them new 
for the fellow, than that they had come out of the 
Rue de Fripperie. 

This is a nicety which makes not the heart sore 
at Paris. 

He had purchased moreover a handsome blue 
satin waistcoat, fancifully enough embroidered — 
this was indeed something the worse for the ser- 
vice it had done, but 'twas clean scour'd — the 
gold had been touch'd up, and upon the whole 
was rather showy than otherwise — and as the blue 
was not violent, it suited with the coat and 
breeches very well : he had squeez'd out of the 
money, moreover, a new bag and solitaire ; and 
had insisted with the Frippier upon a gold pair of 
garters to his breeches knees — He had purchased 
muslin ruffles, Men bordees, with four livres of his 
own money, — and a pair of white silk stockings, 
for five more — and, to top all, nature had given 
him a handsome figure, without costing him a sous. 

He entered the room thus set off, with his hair 
drest in the first style, and with a handsome bou- 
quet in his breast — in a word, there was that look 
of festivity in every thing about him, which at 
once put me in mind it was Sunday — and, by com- 
bating both together, it instantly struck me, that 
the favour he wish'd to ask me the night before, 



116 

was to spend the day as every one in Parts spent 
it besides. I had scarce made the conjecture, 
when La FIeur 9 with infinite humility, but with a 
look of trust, as if I should not refuse him, beg- 
ged I would grant him the day, pour f aire le galant 
vis-a-vis de sa Maitresse. 

Now it was the very thing I intended to do 
myself vis-a-vis Madame de R*** — I had retail- 
ed the remise on purpose for it, and it would nQt 
have mortified my vanity to have had a servant so 
well dress'd as La Fleur was, to have got up be- 
hind it : I never could have worse spared him. 

But we must feel, not argue in these embarrass- 
ments — — the sons and daughters of service part 
with Liberty, but not with nature, in their con- 
tracts ; they are flesh and blood, and have their 
little vanities and wishes in the midst of the house 
of bondage, as well as their task-masters- — no 
doubt they have set their self-denials at a price — 
and their expectations are so unreasonable, that I 
would often disappoint them, but that their con- 
dition puts it so much in my power to do it. 

Behold, — Behold, I am thy servant — -disarms me 
at once of the powers of a master. — 

Thou shalt go, La Fleur ! said I. 

- And what mistress, La Fleur ! said I, 

canst thou have picked up in so little a time at 
Paris ? La Fleur laid his hand upon his breast, 
and said 'twas a petite demoiselle at Monsieur le 
Compte de B* %%%% '§ — La Fleur had a heart made 
for society ; and, to speak the truth of him, let as 
few occasions slip him as his master — -so that, 
some how or other,— but how — Heaven knows — 



117 

he had connected himself with the demoiselle upon 
the landing of the stair-case, during the time I was 
taken up with my passport ; and as there was 
time enough for me to win the Count to my inte- 
rest, La Fleur had contrived to make it do to win 
the maid to his. — The family, it seems, was to 
be at Paris that day ; and he had made a party 
with her, and two or three more of the Count's 
household upon the boulevards. 

Happy people ! that once a week at least are 
sure to lay down all your cares together, and dance 
and sing, and sport away the weights of griev- 
ance, which bow down the spirit of other nations 
to the earth. sent, journey, p. 190. 



THE MONK. 

CALAIS. 
A POOR Monk of the order of St. Fran- 
cis came into the room to beg something for his 
convent. No man cares to have his virtues the 
sport of contingencies — or one man may be gene- 
rous as another man is puissant — sed non quoad 
banc — or be it as it may — for there is no regular 
reasoning upon the ebbs and flows of our humours ; 
they may depend upon the same causes, for aught 
I know, which influence the tides themselves — 
'twould oft be no discredit to us, to suppose it 
was so : I'm sure, at least for myself, that in 
many a case I should be more highly satisfied to 
have it said by the world, " I had had an affair 
with the moon, in which there was neither sin nor 



118 

shame/* than have it pass altogether as my own 
act and deed, wherein there was so much of both. 

— -But be this as it may : the moment I cast 
my eyes upon him. I was predetermined not to 
give him a single sous > and accordingly I put my 
purse into my pocket — button'd it up — set myself 
a little more upon my centre, and advanced up 
gravely to him ; there was something, I fear, for- 
bidding in my look : I have his figure this mo- 
ment before my eyes, and think there was that in 
it which deserved better. „ 

The monk, as I judged from the break in his 
tonsure, a few scattered white hairs upon his tem- 
ples being all that remained of it, might be about 
seventy— but from his eyes, and that sort of fire 
that was in them, which seemed more tempered 
by courtesy than years, could be no more than 

sixty Truth might lie between He was 

certainly sixty -five ; and the general air of his 
countenance, notwithstanding something seemed 
to have been planting wrinkles in it before their 
time, agreed to the account. 

It was one of those heads which Guido has of- 
ten painted-— mild, pale — penetrating, — free from 
all common -place ideas of fat contented ignorance 
looking downwards upon the earth — it look'd for- 
wards ; but look'd, as if it look'd at something 
beyond this world. How one of his order came 
by it, Heaven above, who let it fall upon a Monk's 
shoulders, best knows : but it would have suited a 
Bramin, and had I met it upon the plains of In- 
dostatiy I had reverenced it. 



The rest of his outline may be given in a few 
strokes ; one might put it into the hands of any 
one to design, for 'twas neither elegant or other- 
wise, but as character and expression made it so : 
it was a thin, spare form, something above the 
common size, if it lost not the distinction by a 
bend forward in the figure — but it was the attitude 
of intreaty ; and as it now stands present to my 
imagination, it gain'd more than it lost by it. 

When he had entered the room three paces, he 
stood still ; and laying his left hand upon his 
breast (a slender white staff with which he jour- 
ney'd being in his right) — when I had got close 
up to him, he introduced himself with the little 
story of the wants of his convent, and the poverty 

of his order and did it with so simple a grace 

— and such an air of deprecation was there in the 
whole cast of his look and figure — I was bewitch- 
ed not to have been struck with it. 

A better reason was, I had predetermined not 
to give him a single sous. 

— ? Tis very true, said I, replying to a cast up- 
wards with his eyes, with which he had concluded 
his address — 'tis very true — and Heaven be their 
source who have no other but the charity of the 
world, the stock of which, I fear, is no way suf- 
ficient for the many great claims which are hourly 
made upon it. 

As I pronounced the words great claims^ he 
gave a slight glance with his eye downwards upon 

the sleeve of his tunic 1 felt the full force of 

the appeal — I acknowledge it, said I, — a coarse 
habit, and that but once in three years., with 



120 

meagre diet — are no great matters ; and the true 
point of pity is, as they can be earn'd in the 
world with so little industry, that your order 
should wish to procure them by pressing upon a 
fund which is the property of the lame, the blind, 
the aged, and the infirm — the captive who lies 
down counting over and over again the days of 
his afflictions, languishes also for his share of it ; 
and had you been of the order of mercy , instead of 
the order of St. Francis, poor as I am, continued 
I, pointing at my portmanteau, full cheerfully 
should it have been opened to you, for the ransom 
of the unfortunate — The Monk made me a bow — 
but of all others, resumed I, the unfortunate of 
our own country, surely, have the first rights ; and 
I have left thousands in distress upon our own 
shore — The Monk gave a cordial wave with his 
head — as much as to say, no doubt, there is misery 
enough in every corner of the world, as well as 
within our convent — But we distinguish, said I, 
laying my hand upon the sleeve of his tunic, in 

return for his appeal we distinguish, my good 

father, betwixt those who wish only to eat the 
bread of their own labour— and those who eat the 
bread of other people's and have no other plan in 
life, but to get through it in sloth and ignorance, 
for the love of God. 

The poor Franciscan made no reply ; a hectic 
of a moment pass'd across his cheek, but could 

not tarry Nature seemed to have done with 

her resentments in him ; he shewed none — but 
letting his staff fall within his arm, he press'd 
both his hands with resignation upon his breast 
and retired. 



121 

My heart smote me the moment ne shut the 

door Psha ! said I, with an air of carelessness, 

three several times — but it would not do : every 
ungracious syllable I had uttered, crouded back 
into my imagination ; I reflected I had no right 
over the poor Franciscan, but to deny him : and 
that the punishment of that was enough to the 
disappointed, without the addition of unkind lan- 
guage — I considered his grey hairs his court- 
eous figure seem'd to re-enter and gently ask me, 
what injury he had done me i — and why I could 
use him thus ? — I would have given twenty livres 
for an advocate — I have behaved very ill, said I 
within myself ; but I have only just set out upon 
my travels ; and shall learn better manners as I 
get along. sent, journey, p. 5. 



THE MONK. 

THE good old Monk was within six 
paces of us, as the idea of him cross'd my 
mind ; and was advancing towards us a little 
out of the line, as if uncertain whether he 
should break in upon us or no. — He stopp'd, 
however, as soon as he came up to us, with a 
world of frankness ; and having a horn snuff-box 
in his hand, he presented it open to me — You 
shall taste mine — said I, pulling out my box 
(which was a small tortoise one) — putting it into 
his hand — 'Tis most excellent, said the Monk : 
Then do me the favour, I replied, to accept of 
L 



122 

the box and all, and when you take a pinch out 
of it, sometimes recollect it was the peace-offering 
of a man who once used you unkindly, but not 
from his heart. 

The poor Monk blush'd as red as scarlet. Men 
Dieu ! said he, pressing his hands together — you 
never used me unkindly. — —I should think, said 
the lady, he is not likely. I blush'd in my turn ; 
but from what movements, I leave to the few who 
feel to analyse. — Excuse me. Madam, replied I,— 
I treated him most unkindly ; and from no pro- 
vocation. 'Tis impossible, said the lady. — My 
God ! cried the Monk with a warmth of assevera- 
tion which seem'd not to belong to him— the 
fault was in me, and in the indiscretion of my 
zeal—the lady opposed it, and I joined with her 
in maintaining, it was impossible that a spirit so 
regulated as his could give offence to any. 

I knew not that contention could be rendered 
so sweet and pleasurable a thing to the nerves as 
I then felt it.— We remained silent, without any 
sensation of that foolish pain which takes place, 
when in such a circle you look for ten minutes in 
one another's faces without saying a word. Whilst 
this lasted, the Monk rubbed his horn -box upon 
the sleeve of his tunic ; and as soon as it had ac- 
quired a little air of brightness by the friction — 
he made a low bow, and said 'twas too late to 
say whether it was the weakness or goodness of 
our tempers which had involved us in this contest 
— but be it as it would — he begg'd we might ex- 
change boxes — in saying this he presented his to 
me with one hand, as he took mine from me with 



123 

the other : and having kiss'dit — with a stream of 
good-nature in his eyes, he put it into his bosom — 
and took his leave. 

I guard this box as I would the instrumental 
parts of my religion, to help my mind on to some- 
thing better : in truth, I seldom go abroad with- 
out it : and oft and many a time have I called up 
by it the courteous spirit of its owner to regulate 
my own in the justlings of the world ; they had 
found full employment for his, as I learnt from 
his story, till about the forty-fifth year of his age, 
when upon some military services ill requited, and 
meeting at the same time with a disappointment 
in the tenderest of passions, he abandoned the 
sword and the sex together, and took sanctuary f 
not so much in his convent as in himself. 

I feel a damp upon my spirits as I am going to 
add, that in my last return through Calais, upon 
inquiring after Father Lorenzo, I heard he had 
been dead near three months, and was buried, not 
in his convent, but, according to his desire, in a 
little cemetery belonging to it, about two leagues 
off : I had a strong desire to see where they had 
laid him — when upon pulling out his little horn- 
box, as I sat by his grave, and plucking up a nettle 
or two at the head of it, which had no business to 
grow there, they all struck together so forcibly 
upon my affections, that I burst into a flood of 
tears — but I am as weak as a woman ; and I beg 
the world not to smile, but pity me. 

SENT. JOURNEY, P. 34* 



124? 
FELLOW-FEELING. 

THERE is something in our nature which 
engages us to take part in every accident to which 
man is subject, from what cause soever it may 
have happened ; but in such calamities as a man 
has fallen into through mere misfortune, to be 
charged upon no fault or indiscretion of himself, 
there is something then so truly interesting, that 
at the first sight we generally make them our 
own, not altogether from a reflection that they 
might have been or may be so, but oftener from 
a certain generosity and tenderness of nature which 
disposes us for compassion, abstracted from all 
considerations of self : so that without any ob- 
servable act of the will, we suffer with the unfor- 
tunate, and feel a weight upon our spirits we 
know not why, on seeing the most common in- 
stances of their distress. But where the specta- 
cle is uncommonly tragical, and complicated with 
many circumstances of misery, the mind is then 
taken captive at once, and were it inclined to it, 
has no power to make resistance, but surrenders 
itself to all the tender emotions of pity and deep 
concern. So that when one considers this friendly 
part of nature, without looking farther, one would 
think it impossible for man to look upon misery 
without finding himself in some measure attached 
to the interest of him who suffers it — I say one 
would think it impossible — for there are some 
tempers — how shall I describe them ? — formed 
either of such impenetrable matter, or wrought up 
by habitual selfishness to such an utter irisensibili- 



125 . 

ty of what becomes of the fortunes of their fellow- 
creatures, as if they were not partakers of the 
same nature, or had no lot or connection with the 
species, sermon hi. p. 43. 



THE MERCIFUL MAN. 

LOOK into the world— how often do 

you behold a sordid wretch, whose strait 

heart is open to no man's affliction, taking shelter 
behind an appearance of piety, and putting on the 
garb of religion, which none but the merciful and 
compassionate have a title to wear ! Take notice 
with what sanctity he goes to the end of his days, 
in the same selfish track in which he at first set 
out — turning neither to the right hand nor the 
left — but plods on — pores all his life long upon 
the ground as if afraid to look up, lest peradven- 
ture he should see aught which might turn him 
one moment out of that straight line where inter- 
est is carrying him ; or if, by chance, he stum- 
bles upon a hapless object of distress, which 
threatens such a disaster to him — devoutly passing 
by on the other side, as if unwilling to trust him- 
self to the impressions of nature, or hazard the in- 
conveniencies which pity might lead him into up- 
on the occasion. sermon hi. p. 46* 



L 2 



126 
PITY. 

IN benevolent natures, the impulse to 
pity is so sudden, that, like instruments of music? 
which obey the touch — the objects which are fit- 
ted to excite such impressions, work so instantane- 
ous an effect, that you would think the will was 
scarce concerned, and that the mind was altogeth- 
er passive in the sympathy which her own good- 
ness has excited. The truth is —the soul is gen- 
erally in such cases so busily taken up and wholly 
engrossed by the object of pity, that she does not 
attend to her own operations, or take leisure to 
examine the principles upon which she acts. 

SERMON III. p. 51. 



SLANDER. 

OF the many revengeful, covetous, false, 
and ill-natured persons which we complain of in 
the world, though we all join in the cry against 
them, what man amongst us singles out himself 
as a criminal, or ever once takes it into his head 
that he adds to the number ? — or where is there 
a man so bad, who would not think it the hardest 
and most unfair imputation, to have any of those 
particular vices laid to his charge ? 

If he has the symptoms ever so strong upon 
him, which he would pronounce infallible in 
another, they are indications of no such malady in 
himself — he sees what no one else sees, some se~ 



127 

cret and flattering circumstances in his favour, 
which no doubt make a wide difference betwixt 
his case, and the parties which he condemns. 

What other man speaks so often and so vehe- 
mently against the vice of pride, sets the weakness 
of it in a more odious light, or is more hurt with 
it in another, than the proud man himself ? It is 
the same with the passionate, the designing, the 
ambitious, and some other common characters in 
life ; and being a consequence of the nature of 
such vices, and almost inseparable from them, the 
effect of it are generally so gross and absurd, that 
where pity does not forbid, it is pleasant to ob- 
serve and trace the cheat through the several 
turnings and windings of the heart, and detect it 
through all the shapes and appearances which it 
puts on. sermon iv. p. 72. 



HOUSE OF MOURNING. 

LET us go into the house of mourning, 
made so by such afflictions as have been brought 
on, merely by the common cross accidents and 
disasters to which our condition is exposed, — 
where, perhaps, the aged parents sit broken- 
hearted, pierced to their souls with the folly and 
indiscretion of a thankless child — : — the child of 
their prayers, in whom all their hopes and expect- 
ations centred : — —perhaps a more affecting 

scene a virtuous family lying pinched with 

wanf, where the unfortunate support of it, hav- 



ing long struggled with a train of misfortunes, 

and bravely fought up against them, is now pit- 

eously borne down at the last — overwhelmed with 
a cruel blow which no forecast or frugality could 
have prevented. — O God ! look upon his afflic- 
tions — Behold him distracted with many sorrows, 
surrounded with the tender pledges of his love, 
and the partner of his cares — without bread to 
give them, unable, from the remembrance of better 
days, to dig ; — to beg, ashamed. 

When we enter into the house of mourning 
such as this — it is impossible to insult the un- 
fortunate even with an improper look— Under 
whatever levity and dissipation of heart, such ob- 
jects catch our eyes, — they catch likewise our at- 
tentions, collect and call home our scattered 
thoughts, and exercise them with wisdom. A 
transient scene of distress, such as is here sketch- 
ed, how soon does it furnish materials to set the 
mind at work ! how necessarily does it engage it 
to the consideration of the miseries and misfor- 
tunes, the dangers and calamities to which the 
life of man is subject ! By holding up such a 
glass before it, it forces the mind to see and re- 
flect upon the vanity — the perishing condition, 
and uncertain tenure of every thing in this world. 
From reflections of this serious cast, how insensi- 
bly do the thoughts carry us farther ! — and from 
considering what we are — what kind of world we 
live in, and what evils befal us in it, how naturally 
do they set us to look forwards at what possibly 

we shall be> for what kind of world we are 

intended— what evils may befal us there— 



129 

and what provisions we should make against them 
here, whilst we have time and opportunity ! If 
these lessons are so inseparable from the house of 
mourning here supposed — we shall find it a still 
more instructive school of wisdom when we take 
a view of the place in that more affecting light in 
which the wise man seems to confine it in the 
text ; in which, by the house of mourning, I be- 
lieve he means that particular scene of sorrow, 
where there is lamentation and mourning for the 
dead. Turn hither, I beseech you, for a moment. 
Behold a dead man ready to be carried out, the 
only son of his mother, and she a widow ! Per- 
haps a more affecting spectacle, a kind and indul- 
gent father of a numerous family, lies breathless 
— snatched away in the strength of his age — ■ 
torn in an evil hour from his children and the bo- 
som of a disconsolate wife ! Behold much peo- 
ple of the city gathered together to mix their 
tears, with settled sorrow in their looks, going 
heavily along to the house of mourning, to per- 
form the last melancholy office, which, when the 
debt of nature is paid, we are called upon to pay 
each other ! If this sad occasion which leads 
him there, has not done it already, take notice to 
what a serious and devout frame of mind every 
man is reduced, the moment he enters this gate 
of affliction. The busy and fluttering spirits 
which in the house of mirth were wont to trans- 
port him from one diverting object to another — ■ 
see how they are fallen ! how peaceably they are 
laid ! In this gloomy mansion full of shades and 
uncomfortable damps to seize the soul,— see, the 



ISO 

light and easy heart, which never knew what it 
was to think before, how pensive it is now, how 
soft, how susceptible, how full of religious im- 
pressions, how deeply it is smitten with a sense 
and with a love of virtue ! Could we, in this cri- 
sis, whilst the empire of reason and religion lasts, 
and the heart is thus exercised with wisdom, and 
busied with heavenly contemplations — could we 
see it naked as it is — stripped of its passions, un- 
spotted by the world, and regardless of its pleas- 
ures^ — we might then safely rest our cause upon 
trfis single evidence, and appeal to the most sen- 
sual, whether Solomon has not made a just deter- 
mination here in favour of the house of mourning ? 
not for its own sake, but as it is fruitful in vir- 
tue, and becomes the occasion of so much good. 
Without this end, sorrow, I own, has no use but 
to shorten a man's days — nor can gravity, with 
all its studied solemnity of look and carriage, 
serve any end but to make one half of the world 
merry, and impose upon the other. 

SERM. II. p. 33. 



FRAILTY. 

THE best of men appear sometimes to 
be strange compounds of contradictory qualities : 
and, were the accidental oversights and folly of 
the wisest man, — the failings and imperfections of 
a religious man, — the hasty acts and passionate 
words of a meek man; were they to rise up in 



131 

judgment against them,— -and an ill-natured judge 
be suffered to mark in this manner, what has been 
done amiss — what character so unexceptionable 
as to be able to stand before him ? 

SERM. XXXI. P. 33. 



INSENSIBILITY. 

IT is the fate of mankind, too often, to 
seem insensible of what they may enjoy at the ea- 
siest rate. serm. xlii. p. 126. 



UNCERTAINTY. 

THERE is no condition in life so fixed 
and permanent as to be out of danger, or the 
reach of change : and we all may depend upon 
it, that we shall take our turns of wanting and 
desiring. By how many unforeseen causes may 
riches take wing ! — The crowns of princes may 
be shaken, and the greatest that ever awed the 
world have experienced what the turn of the 
wheel can do. — That which hath happened to one 
man, may befal another ; and, therefore, that ex- 
cellent rule of our Saviour's ought to govern us 
in all our actions, — Whatsoever you would that 
men should do to you, do you also to them like- 
wise. — Time and chance happen to all ; and the 
most affluent may be stript of all, and find his 
worldly comforts like so many withered leaves 
dropping from him. serm. xli. p. 2G9* 



132 
THE DEAD ASS. 

AND this, said he, putting the remains 
ef a crust into his wallet — and this should have 
been thy portion, said he, hadst thou been alive 
to have shared it with me. I thought by the ac- 
cent, it had been an apostrophe to his child ; but 
'twas to his ass, and to the very ass we had seen 
dead on the road, which had occasioned La 
Fleur's misadventure. The man seemed to la- 
ment it much ; and it instantly brought into my 
mind Sancho's lamentation for his ; but he did it 
with more true touches of nature. 

The mourner was sitting on a stone bench at 
the door, with the ass's pannel and its bridle on 
one side, which he took up from time to time — 
then laid them down — look'd at them — and shook 
his head. He then took his crust of bread out 
of his wallet again, as if to eat it ; held it some 
time in his hand — then laid it upon the bit of his 
ass's bridle— look'd wistfully at the little ar- 
rangement he had made— and then gave a sigh. 

The simplicity of his grief drew numbers about 
him, and La Fleur among the rest, wjiilst the 
horses were getting ready ; as I continued sitting 
in the post-chaise, I could see and hear over their 
heads. 

— He said he had come last from Spain, where 
he had been from the furthest borders of Franco- 
nia ; and had got so far on his return home, when 
his ass died. Every one seemed desirous to know 
what business could have taken so old and poor a 
man so far a journey from his own home. 



133 

It had pleased Heaven, he said, to bless him 
with three sons, the finest lads in all Germany ; 
but having in one week lost two of them by the 
small-pox, and the youngest falling ill of the same 
distemper, he was afraid of being bereft of them 
all ; and made a vow, if Heaven would not take 
him from him also, he would go in gratitude to 
St. Jago, in Spain. 

When the mourner got thus far on his story, 
he stopp'd to pay nature her tribute— and wept 
bitterly. 

He said Heaven had accepted the conditions, 
and that he had set out from his cottage, with 
this poor creature, who had been a patient part- 
ner of his journey — that it had eat the same bread 
with him all the way, and was unto him as a friend. 

Every body who stood about, heard the poor 
fellow with concern — La Fleur offered him money 
— the mourner said he did not want it — it was 
not the value of the ass— but the loss of him.— 
The ass, he said, he was assured, loved him — and 
upon this, told them a long story of a mischance 
upon their passage over the Pyrenean mountains, 
which had separated them from each other three 
days : during which time the ass had sought him 
as much as he had sought the ass, and they had 
neither scarce eat or drank till they met. 

Thou hast one comfort, friend, said I, at least 
in the loss of the poor beast ; I'm sure thou hast 
been a merciful master to him. — Alas ! said the 
mourner, I thought so when he was alive — but 
now he is dead, I think otherwise. — I fear the 
weight of myself and my afflictions together have 
M 



134 

been too much for him — they have shortened the 
poor creature's days, and I fear I have them to 
answer for. — Shame on the world ! said I to my- 
self — Did we love each other as this poor soul 
but lov'd his ass — 'twould be something. 

SENT. JOURNEY, P. 74. 



HUMOURING IMMORAL APPETITES. 

THE humouring of certain appetites, 
where morality is not concerned, seems to be the 
means by which the Author of nature intended 
to sweeten this journey of life, — and bear us up 
under the many shocks and hard jostlings, which 
we are sure to meet with in our way. And a 
man might, with as much reason, muffle up him- 
self against sunshine and fair weather, — and at 
other times expose himself naked to the inclemen- 
cies of cold and rain, as debar himself of the in- 
nocent delights of his nature, for affected reserve 
and melancholy. 

It is true, on the other hand, our passions are 
apt to grow upon us by indulgence, and become 
exorbitant, if they are not kept under exact disci- 
pline, that by way of caution and prevention, 
'twere better, at certain times, to affect some de- 
gree of needless reserve, than hazard any ill con- 
sequences from the other extreme. 

SERM. XXXVII. p. 13, 



136 
UNITY. 

LOOK into private life — behold how 
good and pleasant a thing it is to live together in 
unity ; — it is like the precious ointment poured 
upon the head of Aaron* that run down to his 
skirts ; importing that this balm of life is felt and 
enjoyed, not only by governors of kingdoms, but 
is derived down to the lowest rank of life, and 
tasted in the most private recesses ; — all, from the 
king to the peasant, are refreshed with its bless- 
ings, without which we can find no comfort in 
any thing this world can give. — It is this blessing 
gives every one to sit quietly under his vine, and 
reap the fruits of his labour and industry : — in 
one word, which bespeaks who is the bestower of 
it — it is that only which keeps up the harmony 
and order of the world, and preserves every thing 
in it from ruin and confusion. 

serm. xli. p. 203- 



OPPOSITION. 

THERE are secret workings in human 
affairs, which over-rule all human contrivance, and 
counterplot the wisest of our counsels, in s© 
strange and unexpected a manner, as to cast a 
damp upon our best schemes and warmest endeav- 
ours, serm. xxxix. p. 170* 



V66 

CAPTAIN SHANDY J S JUSTIFICATION 
OF HIS OWN PRINCIPLES AND CON- 
DUCT IN WISHING TO CONTINUE 
THE WAIi. 

WRITTEN TO HIS BROTHER. 

I AM not insensible, brother Shandy, that 
when a man, whose profession is arms, wishes, as 
I have done, for war, — it has an ill aspect to the 
world ; — and that, how just and right soever his 
motives and intentions may be, — he stands in an 
uneasy posture in vindicating himself from private 
views in doing it. 

For this cause, if a soldier is a prudent man, 
which he may be, without being a jot the less 
brave, he will be sure not to utter his wish in the 
hearing of an enemy ; for, say what he will, an 
enemy will not believe him* — He will be cautious 
of doing it even to a friend, — lest he may suffer 
in his esteem : — But if his heart is overcharged, 
and a secret sigh for arms must have its vent, he 
will reserve it for the ear of a brother, who knows 
his true character to the bottom, and what his 
true notions, dispositions, and principles of honour 
are : What, I hope, I have been in all these, 
brother Shandy, would- be unbecoming in me to 
say ; — much worse, I know, have I been than I 
ought, — and something worse, perhaps, than I 
think : but such as I am, you, my dear brother 
Shandy, who have suck'd the same breasts with 
me,— and with whom I have been brought up 
from my cradle, — and from whose knowledge. 



137 

from the first hours of our boyish pastimes, down 
to this, I have concealed no one action of my life, 
and scarce a thought in it — such as I am, brother, 
you must by this time know me, with all my 
vices, and with all my weaknesses too, whether 
my age, my temper, my passions, or my under- 
standing. 

Tell me then, my dear brother Shandy , upon 
which of them it is, that when I condemned the 
peace of Utrecht, and grieved the war was not car- 
ried on with vigour a little longer, you should 
think your brother did it upon unworthy views ; 
or that in wishing for war, he should be bad 
enough to wish more of his fellow creatures slain, — 
more slaves made, and more families driven from 
their peaceful habitations, merely for his own 
pleasure : — Tell me, brother Shandy, upon what 
one deed of mine do you ground it ? 

If, when I was a school-boy, I cou]d not hear 
a drum beat, but my heart beat with it — was it 
my fault ? Did I plant the propensity there ? Did 
I sound the alarm within, or Nature i 

When Guy, Earl of Warwick, and Parismus 
and Parismenus, and Valentine and Orson, and the 
Seven Champions of England were handed around 
the school, — were they not all purchased with my 
own pocket-money ! — Was that selfish, brothei 
Shandy P When we read over the siege of Troy> 
which lasted ten years and eight months, — though 
with such a train of artillery as we had at Namur, 
the town might have been carried in a week — was 
I not as much concerned for the Greeks and Tro- 
jans as any boy of the whole school ? Had I not 
M2 



138 

three strokes of a ferula given me, two on my 
right hand, and one on my left, for calling Helena 
«a bitch for it ? Did any one of yon shed more 
tears for Hector P And when king Priam came to 
the camp to beg his body, and returned weeping 
back to Troy without it, — you know, brother, I 
could not eat my dinner. 

— Did that bespeak me cruel ? Or, because, 
brother Shandy, my blood flew out into the camp, 
and my heart panted for w r ar, — was it a proof it 
could not ach for the distresses of war too ? 

O brother ! 'tis one thing for a soldier to gath- 
er laurels, — and 'tis another to scatter cypress. 

■ — 'Tis one thing, brother Shandy, for a soldier 
to hazard his own life — to leap first down into 
the trench, where he is sure to be cut in pieces :— 
'Tis one thing, from public spirit and a thirst of 
glory, to enter the breach the first man, — to stand 
in the foremost rank, and march bravely on with 
drums and trumpets, and colours flying about his 
ears : — 'tis one thing, I say, brother Shandy, to do 
this ; — and 'tis another thing to reflect on the 
miseries of war,— to'view the desolations of whole 
countries, and consider the intolerable fatigues 
and hardships which the soldier himself, the in- 
strument who works them, is forced (for six-pence 
"-day, if he can get it) to undergo. 

Need I be told, dear Torick, as I was by you, 
in Le Fevre's funeral sermon, That so soft and 
gentle a creature, horn to love mercy and kindness, as 
man is, was not shaped for this P But why did 
you not add, Torick, — if not by nature, — that 
he is so by necessity ? — For what is war ? what 



139 

is it, Torick, when fought as ours has been, upon 
principles of Liberty, and upon principles of Hon- 
our — what is it, but the getting together of quiet 
and harmless people, with their swords in their 
hands, to keep the ambitious and the turbulent 
within bounds ! And Heaven is my witness,, bro- 
ther Shandy, that the pleasure I have taken in 
these things, — and that infinite delight, in partic- 
ular, which has attended my sieges in my bowling- 
greeny has rose within me, and I hope in the Cor- 
poral too, from the consciousness we both had, 
that in carrying them on, we were answering the 
great end of our creation. 

TRISTRAM SHANDY, VOL. III. CHAP. 75. 



MERCY. 



MY uncle Toby was a man patient of in- 
juries ;— not from want of courage, — where just 
occasions presented, or called it forth, — I know 
no man under whose arm I would sooner have 
taken shelter ; — nor did this arise from any insen- 
sibility or obtuseness of his intellectual parts : — 
he was of a peaceful, placid nature, — no jarring 
element in it, — all was mixed up so kindly with 
him ; my uncle Toby had scarce a heart to retaliate 
upon a fly : — Go, — says he one day at dinner, to 
an overgrown one which had buzzed about his 
nose, and tormented him cruelly all dinner time, — - 
and which, after infinite attempts, he had caught 
at last- — as it flew by him ; — I'll not hurt thee. 



140 

says my uncle Toby, rising from his chair, and go- 
ing across the room, with the fly in his hand, — 
" I'll not hurt a hair of thy head : — Go, says he, 
lifting up the sash, and opening his hand as he 
spoke, to let it escape : — go, poor devil, — get 
thee gone ; why should I hurt thee ? — This world 
surely is wide enough to hold thee and me. 

*£* This is to serve for parents and governors* 
instead of a whole volume upon the subject. 

T. SHANDY, VOL. I. CHAP. 37- 



INDOLENCE. 

INCONSISTENT soul that man is !— 
languishing under wounds which he has the power 
to heal ! — his whole life a contradiction to his 
knowledge ! — his reason, that precious gift of 
God to him — instead of pouring in oil) serving 
but to sharpen his sensibilities, — to muitiply his 
pains, and render him more melancholy and uneasy 
under them ! — Poor unhappy creature, that he 
should do so !— are not the necessary causes of 
misery in this life enow, but he must add volun- 
tary ones to his stock of sorrow ; struggle against 
evils which cannot be avoided, and submit to oth- 
ers, which a tenth part of the trouble they create 
him, would remove from his heart for ever ? 

T. SHANDY, VOL. II. CHAP. 14. 



141 
CONSOLATION. 

BEFORE an affliction is digested, con- 
solation ever comes too soon ; — and after it is 
digested — it comes too late : there is but a mark 
between these two, as fine almost as a hair, for a 
comforter to take aim at. 

T. SHANDY, VPL. II. CHAP. 22. 



THE STARLING. 

BE SHREW the sombre pencil ! said 

I vauntingly — for I envy not its powers, which 
paints the evils of life with so hard and deadly a 
colouring. The mind sits terrified at the objects 
she has magnified herself, and blackened ; reduce 
them to their proper size and hue, she overlooks 
them, — 'Tis true, said I, correcting the proposi- 
tion — the Bastille is not an evil to be despised — 
but strip it of its towers — fill up the fosse — un- 
barricade the doors — call it simply a confinement, 
and suppose 'tis some tyrant of a distemper — and 
not a man which holds you in it — the evil van- 
ishes, and you bear the other half without com- 
plaint. 

I was interrupted in the hey-day of this solilo- 
quy, with a voice, which I took to be of a child, 

which complained " it could not get out." 1 

looked up and down the passage, and seeing nei- 
ther man, woman, nor child, I went out without 
farther attention. 



U2 

In my return back through the passage, I heard 
the same words repeated twice over ; and looking 
up, I saw it was a starling hung in a little cage — • 
u I can't get out — I can't get out," said the starling. 

I stood looking at the bird : and to every per- 
son who came through the passage it ran flutter- 
ing to the side towards which they approached it, 
with the same lamentation of its captivity — ~" I 
can't get out," said the starling— God help thee, 
said I ; but I will let thee out, cost what it will ; 
so I turned about the cage to get the door ; it 
was twisted and double twisted so fast with wire, 
there was no getting it open, without pulling it to 
pieces — I took both hands to it. 

The bird flew to the place where I was at- 
tempting his deliverance, and thrusting his head 
through the trellis, pressed his breast against it, 
as if impatient — I fear, poor creature ! said I, I 
cannot set thee at liberty-—" No," said the star- 
ling — " I can't get out — I can't get out," said 
the starling. 

I vow I never had my affections more tenderly 
awakened : nor do I remember an incident in my 
life, where the dissipated spirits, to which my rea- 
son had been a bubble, were so suddenly called 
home. Mechanical as the notes were, yet so true 
in tune to nature where they chaunted, that in one 
moment they overthrew all my systematic reason- 
ings upon the Bastille ; and I heavily walked up 
stairs, unsaying every word I had said in going 
down them. 

Disguise thyself as thou wilt, still, Slavery ! 
said I — still thou art a bitter draught ! and though 



145 

thousands in all ages have been made to drink of 
thee, thou art no less bitter on that account. — 
'Tis thou, thrice sweet and gracious goddess ! 
addressing my self to Liberty, whom all in public 
or in private worship, whose taste is grateful, and 
ever will be so, till Nature herself shall change 
- — no tint of words can spot thy snowy mantle, or 

chymic power turn thy sceptre into iron with 

thee to smile upon him as he eats his crust, the 
swain is happier than his monarch, from whose court 

thou art exiled.- Gracious Heaven ! cried I, 

kneeling down upon the last step but one in my 

ascent Grant me but health, thou great Be- 

stower of it, and give me but this fair goddess as 

my companion and shower down thy mitres, 

if it seems good unto thy divine providence, upon 
those heads which are aching for them. 

SENT. JOURNEY, P. 134. 



THE CAPTIVE. 

PARIS. 

THE bird in his cage pursued me into 
my room ; I sat down close by my table, and 
leaning my head upon my hand, I began to figure 
to myself the miseries of confinement. I was in 
a right frame for it, and so I gave full scope to 
my imagination. 

I was going to begin with the millions of my 
fellow-creatures born to no inheritance but slave- 
ry ; but finding, however affecting the picture 
was, that I could not bring it near me, and that 



, 144 

the multitude of sad groups in it did but distract 
me 

1 took a single captive, and having first 

shut him up in his dungeon, I then looked through 
the twilight of his grated door to take his picture. 

I heheld his body half wasted away with long 
expectation and confinement, and felt what kind of 
sickness of the heart it was which arises from hope 
deferr'd. Upon looking nearer, I saw him pale 
and feverish : in thirty years the western breeze 
had not once fann'd his blood — he had seen no sun, 
no moon, in all that time — nor had the voice of 
friend or kinsman breathed through his lattice : — 
his children 

— But here my heart began to bleed — and I was 
forced to go on with another part of the portrait. 

He was sitting upon the ground upon a little 
straw, in the farthest corner of his dungeon, which 
was alternately his chair and bed : a little calen- 
dar of small sticks were laid at the head, notch'd 
ail over with the dismal days and nights he had 
passed there — he had one of those little sticks in 
his hand, and with a rusty nail he was etching 
another day of misery to add to the heap. As I 
darkened the little light he had, he lifted up a 
hopeless eye towards the door, then cast it down — 
shook his head, and went on with his work of af- 
fliction. I heard his chains upon his legs, as he 
turned his body to lay his little stick upon the 
bundle — He gave a deep sigh — I saw the iron 
enter into his soul — I burst into tears — I could 
not sustain the picture of confinement which mr 
fancy had drawn. sent, journey, p. 138. 



14-5 

THE DWARF. 

I WAS walking down that lane which 
leads from the Carousel to the Palais Royal, and 
observing a little boy in some distress at the side 
of the gutter, which ran down the middle of it, I 
took hold of his hand, and help'd him over. Upon 
turning up his face to look at him after, I perceiv- 
ed he was about forty — Never mind, said I ; some 
good body will do as much for me when I am 
ninety. 

I feel some little principles within me, which 
incline me to be merciful towards the poor blight- 
ed part of my species, who have neither size or 
strength to get on in the world. — I cannot bear 
to see one of them trod upon ; and had scarce got 
seated beside an old French officer at the Opera 
Comique, ere the disgust was exercised, by seeing 
the very thing happen under the box we sat in. 

At the end of the orchestra, and betwixt that 
and the first side-box, there is a small esplanade 
left, where, when the house is full, numbers of all 
ranks take sanctuary. Though you stand, as in 
the parterre, you pay the same price as in the or- 
chestra. A poor defenceless being of this order 
had got thrust, somehow or other, into this luck- 
less place the night was hot, and he was sur- 
rounded by beings two feet and a half higher than 
himself. The dwarf suffered inexpressibly on both 
sides : but the thing which incommoded him most 
was a tall corpulent German, near seven feet high, 
who stood directly betwixt him and all possibility 
of seeing either the stage or the actors. The uoor 
N 



146 

dwarf did all he could to get a peep at what was 
going forwards, by seeking for some little open- 
ing betwixt the German's arm and his body, try- 
ing first one side, then the other ; but the German 
stood square in the most unaccommodating posture 

that can be imagined- the dwarf might as 

well have been placed at the bottom of the deep- 
est draw-well in Paris ; so he civilly reached up 
his hand to the German's sleeve, and told him his 

distress -The German turn'd his head back, 

look'd down upon him as Goliah $d upon David— 
and unfeelingly resumed his posture. 

I was just then taking a pinch of snuff out of 
my Monk's little horn-box — And how would thy 
meek and courteous spirit, my dear Monk ! so 
temper' d to bear and forbear ! — how sweetly would 
it have lent an ear to this poor soul's complaint ! 

The old French officer seeing me lift up my 
eyes with an emotion, as I made the apostrophe, 
took the liberty to ask me what was the matter I 
— I told him the story in three words ; and add- 
ed, how inhuman it was. 

By this time the dwarf was driven to extremes, 
and in his first transports, which are generally un- 
reasonable, had told the German he would cut off 
his long queue with his knife — The German look'd 
back coolly, and told him he was welcome, if he 
could reach it. 

An injury sharpened by an insult, be it to who- 
it will, makes every man of sentiment a party ; I 
could have leaped out of the box to have redress- 
ed it— The old French officer did it with much 
less confusion ; for leaning a little over, and nod- 



147 

ding to a sentinel, and pointing at the same time 
with his finger to the distress — the sentinel made 
his way to it. — There was no occasion to tell the 
grievance — the thing told itself ; so thrusting hack 
the German instantly with his musket— he took 
the poor dwarf by the hand, and placed him be- 
fore him — This is noble ! said I, clapping my 
hands together — and yet you would not permit 
this, said the old officer, in England, 

In England, dear Sir, said I, nve all sit at out- 
ease. 

The old French officer would have set me at uni- 
ty with myself, in case 1 had been at variance, — - 
by saying it was a bcn-mot — and as a bon-mot is al- 
ways worth something at Paris, he offered me a 
pinch of snuff. sent, journey, p. 113. 



CHARITY. 

WHEN all is ready, and every article is 
disputed and paid for in the inn, unless you are a 
little sour'd by the adventure, there is always a 
matter to compound at the door, before you can 
get into your chaise, and that is with the sons and 
daughters of poverty, who surround you. Let no 
man say, " Let them go to the devil f 9 — 'tis a 
cruel journey to send a few miserables, and they 
have had sufferings enow without it : I always 
think it better to take a few sous out in my hand ; 
and I would counsel every gentle traveller to do so 
likewise ; he need not be so exact in setting down 



148 

his motives for giving them— they will be register- 
ed elsewhere. 

For my own part, there is no man gives so little 
as I do ; for few that I know have so little to 
give : but as this was the first public act of my 
charity in France, I took the more notice of it. 

A-well-a-day ! said I, I have but eight sous in 
the world, shewing them in my hand, and there 
are eight poor men and eight poor women for 'em. 

A poor tatter'd soul without a shirt on, instant- 
ly withdrew his claim, by retiring two steps out 
of the circle, and making a disqualifying bow, on 
his part. Had the whole parterre cried out Place 
aux dames ! with one voice, it would not have con- 
veyed the sentiment of a deference for the sex 
with half the effect. 

Just Heaven ! for what wise reason hast thou 
ordered it, that beggary and urbanity, which are 
at such variance in other countries, should find a 
way to be at unity in this ? 

I insisted upon presenting him with a single sous, 
merely for his pditesse, 

A poor little dwarfish, brisk fellow, who stood 
over-against me in the circle, putting something 
first under his arm, which had once been a hat, took 
his snuff-box out of his pocket, and generously of- 
fered a pinch on both sides of him ; it was a gift 
of consequence, and modestly declined — The poor 
little fellow press'd it upon them with a nod of 
welcomeness — Prene% en — prene% y said he, look- 
ing another way ; so they each took a pinch, — 
Pity thy box should ever want one, said I to my- 
self ; so I put a couple of sous into it — taking a 



149 

small pinch out of his box, to exchange the value, 
as I did it— He felt the weight of the second ob- 
ligation more than that of the first — 'twas doing 
him an honour — the other was only doing him a 
chanty — and he made me a bow down to the 
ground for it. 

— Here ! said I to an old soldier with one hand, 
who had been campaign 'd and worn out to death 
in the service — here's a couple of sous for thee. 
Vive le Roi I said the other soldier. 

I had then but three sous left ; so I gave one, 
simply poar P amour de Dieu, which was the foot- 
ing on which it was begg'd — The poor woman 
had a dislocated hip ; so I could not well be upon 
any other motive. 

Mon cher & tres charitable Monsieur — There's 
no opposing this, said I. 

My lord Anglais — the very sound was worth the 
money — so I gave my last sous for it. But in the 
eagerness of giving, I overlook'd a pauvre honteux, 
who had no one to ask a sous for him, and who, I 
believed, would have perished ere he could have 
asked one for himself ; he stood by the chaise, a 
little without the circle, and wiped a tear from a 
face which, I thought, had seen better days — 
Good God ! said I — and I have not one single 

sous left to give him But you have a thousand ! 

cried all the powers of nature, stirring within me — « 
so I gave him — no matter what — I am ashamed to 
say hoiv much, now — and was ashamed to think 
how little, then ; so if the reader can form any 
conjecture of my disposition, as these two fixed 
N2 



150 

points are given him, he may judge within a livre 
or two what was the precise sum. 

I could afford nothing for the rest, but Dieu 
<vous benisse — Et le bon Dieu vous benisse encore — 
said the old soldier, the dwarf, &c. The pauvre 
honteux could say nothing — he pull'd out a little 
handkerchief, and wiped his face as he turned 
away — and I thought he thanked me more than 
them all. sent, journey, p. 66* 



REFLECTIONS ON DEATH. 



THE Corporal- 



Tread lightly on -his ashes, ye men of genius,— 
for he was your kinsman : 

Weed his grave clean, ye men of goodness, — for 
he was your brother. — Oh Corporal ! had I thee 
but now, — now, that I am able to give thee a din- 
ner and protection, — how would I cherish thee ! 
thou shouldst wear thy Montero-cap every hour of 
the day, and every day of the week, — and when it 
was worn out, I would purchase thee a couple 
like it ; — but alas ! alas ! alas ! now that I can do 
this in spite of their reverences — the occasion : 
lost — for thou art gone ; — thy genius fled up to 
the stars from whence it came ; — and that warm 
heart of thine, with all its generous and open ves- 
sels, compressed into a clod of the valley f 

But what is this — what is this, to that future 
and dreaded page, where I look towards the velvet 
pall, decorated with the military ensigns of thy 



151 

master — the first — the foremost of created beings ; 
where I shall see thee, faithful servant, laying his 
sword and scabbard with a trembling hand across 
his coffin, and then turning, pale as ashes, to the 
) door, to take his mourning horse by the bridle, to 
follow his hearse, as he directed thee ; — where- 
all my father's systems shall be baffled by his sor- 
rows ; and, in spite of his philosophy, I shall be- 
hold him, as he inspects the lackered plate, twice 
taking his spectacles from off his nose, to wipe 
away the dew which nature had shed upon them — 
when I see him cast the rosemary with an air of 
disconsolation, which cries through my ears, — O 
Toby ! in what corner of the world shall I seek 
thy fellow. 

— Gracious powers ! which erst have opened 
the lips of the dumb in his distress, and made the 
tongue of the stammerer speak plain — when I shall 
arrive at this dreaded page, deal not with me, then, 
with a stinted hand. 

T. SHANDY, VOL. III. CHAP. 68. 



PLEASURES OF OBSERVATION AND 
STUDY. 

-WHAT a large volume of adven- 



tures may be grasped within this little span of 
life, by him who interests his heart in every thing, 
and who, having eyes to see what time and chance 
are perpetually holding out to him as he journey- 
eth on his way, misses nothing he can fairly lay 
his hands on ! 



152 

— If this won't turn out something — another 
will no matter — 'tis an essay upon human na- 
ture — I get my labour for my pains — 'tis enough 
— the pleasure of the experiment has kept my 
senses, and the best part of my blood awake, and 
laid the gross to sleep. 

I pity the man who can travel from Dan to 
Beersheha, and cry, 'Tis all barren — And so it is ; 
and so is all the world to him who will not culti- 
vate the fruits it offers. I declare, said I, clap- 
ping my hands cheerily together, that were I in a 
desart, I would find out wherewith in it to call 
forth my affections — If I could do no better, I 
would fasten them upon some sweet myrtle, or 
seek some melancholy cypress to connect myself 
to — I would court their shade, and greet them 
kindly for their protection — I would cut my name 
upon them, and swear they were the loveliest trees 
throughout the desart : if their leaves withered, 
I would teach myself to mourn, and when they 
rejoiced, I would rejoice along with them. 

SENT. jour. p. 51. 



FEELING AND BENEFICENCE. 

WAS it Mackay's regiment, quoth my 
uncle Toby> where the poor grenadier was so un- 
mercifully whipp'd at Bruges about the ducats ? 

O Christ ! he was innocent ! cried Trim, 

with a deep sigh. — And he was whipp'd, may it 
please your honour, almost to death's door. — 



153 

They had better have shot him outright, as he 
begged, and he had gone directly to heaven, for 
he was as innocent as your honour. — 1 thank thee, 
Trim, quoth my uncle Toby. I never think of his, 
continued Trim, and my poor brother Tom's mis- 
fortunes, for we were all three school-fellows, but 
I cry like a coward. — Tears are no proof of cow- 
ardice, Trim ; I drop them oftentimes myself, 
cried my uncle Toby — I know your honour does, 
replied Trim, and so am not ashamed of it myself. 
- — But to think, may it please your honour, con- 
tinued Trim, — a tear stealing into the corner of 

his eye as he spoke to think of two virtuous 

lads, with hearts as warm in their bodies, and as 
honest as God could make them — the children of 
honest people, going forth with gallant spirits to 
seek their fortunes in the world — and fall into 
such evils ! poor Tom ! to be tortured upon a 
rack for nothing — but marrying a Jew's widow 
who sold sausages — honest Dick Johnson's soul to 
\>e scourged out of his body, for the ducats 
another man put in his knapsack ! — O ! — these 
are r&isfortunes, cried Trim, pulling out his hand- 
kerchief, — these are misfortunes, — may it please 
your honour, worth laying down and crying over. 
— 'T would be a pity, Trim, quoth my uncle 
'Toby, thou sho^ldst ever feel sorrow of thy own, 

thou feelest it so tenderly for others. Alack- 

a-day, replied the Corporal, brightening up his 
face — your honour knows I have neither wife or 
child— I can have no sorrows in this world. As 
few as any man, replied my uncle Toby ; nor can 
I see how a fellow of thy light heart can suffer > 



154 

but from the distress of poverty in thy old age — 
when thou art past all services, Trim, — and hast 
outlived thy friends. An't please your honour, 
never fear, replied Trim, cheerily. — But I would 
have thee never fear, Trim, replied my uncle Toby ; 
and therefore, continued my uncle Toby, throwing 
down his crutch, and getting upon his legs as he 
uttered the word therefore — in recompense, Trim, 
of thy long fidelity to me, and that goodness of 

thy heart I have had such proofs of whilst 

thy master is worth a shilling thou shalt never 

ask elsewhere, Trim, for a penny. Trim attempt- 
ed to thank my uncle Toby, but had not power — 
tears trickled down his cheeks faster than he could 
wipe them off — he laid his hands upon his breast 
— made a bow to the ground, and shut the door. 
— I have left Trim my bowling-green, cried my 
uncle Toby —My father smiled — I have left him 
moreover, a pension, continued my uncle Toby — 
My father looked grave. 

T. SHANDY, VOL. II. CHAP. 39. 



SLAVERY. 

CONSIDER slavery,— wfcat it is,— how 
bitter a draught, and how many millions have 
been made to drink it ; which, if it can poi- 
son all earthly happiness when exercised barely 
upon our bodies, what must it be, when it com- 
prehends both the slavery of body and mind ? To 
conceive this, look into the history of the Romish 



155 

church and her tyrants (or rather executioners )=> 
who seem to have taken pleasure in the pangs and 

convulsions of their fellow-creatures. Examine 

the Inquisition, hear the melancholy notes sound- 
ed in every cell. — Consider the anguish of mock- 
trials, and the exquisite tortures consequent there- 
upon, mercilessly inflicted upon the unfortunate, 
where the racked and weary soul has so often 
wished to take its leave, — but cruelly not suffered 

to depart Consider how many of these helpless 

wretches have been hauled from thence, in all pe- 
riods of this tyrannic usurpation, to undergo the 
massacres and flames to which a false and bloody 
religion has condemned them. 

— Let us behold him in another light 

If we consider man as a creature full of wants 
and necessities (whether real or imaginary), which 
he is not able to supply of himself, what a train 
of disappointments, vexations, and dependances 
are to be seen issuing from thence to perplex and 

make his way uneasy ! How many jostlings 

and hard struggles do we undergo in making our 
way in the world ! — How barbarously held back ! 
— How often and basely overthrown, in aiming- 
only at getting bread !-— How many of us never 
attain it — at least not comfortably, — but from va- 
rious unknown causes— eat it all our lives long 
in bitterness ! 



156 

OPPRESSION VANQUISHED. 

I HAVE not been a furlong from Shan- 
dy Hall since I wrote to you last— but why is my 
pen so perverse ? I have been to *****, and my 
errand was of so peculiar a nature, that I must 
give you an account of it. You will scarce be- 
lieve me, when I tell you it was to out-iuggle a 
juggling attorney ; to put craft and all its powers 
to defiance ; and to obtain justice from one — who 
has a heart fell enough to take advantage of the 
mistakes of honest simplicity, and who has raised 
a considerable fortune by artifice and injustice. 
However, I gained my point ! — it was a star and 
garter to me ; the matter was as follows : 

" A poor man, the father of my Vestal, having 
by the sweat of his brow, during a course of many 
laborious years, saved a small sum of money, ap- 
plied to this scribe to put it out to use for him : 
this was done, and a bond given for the money. 
The honest man, having no place in his cot- 
tage which he thought sufficiently secure, put it 
in a hole in the thatch, which had served instead 
of a strong box to keep his money. In this situ- 
ation the bond remained till the time of receiving 
his interest drew nigh. But, alas ! the rain which 
had done no mischief to his gold, had found out 
his paper security, and had rotted it to pieces !" 
It would be a difficult matter to paint the distress 
of the old countryman upon this discovery ; — he 
came to me weeping, and begged my advice and 
assistance ! — ~ it cut me to the heart ! 

Frame to yourself the picture of a man upwards 



157 

of sixty years of age — who having with much 
penury and more toil, with the addition of a small 
legacy, scraped together about fourscore pounds 
to support him in the infirmities of old age, and 
to be a little portion for his child when he should 
be dead and gone — lost his little hoard at once — ■ 
and, to aggravate his misfortune — by his own ne- 
glect and incaution.— -" If I was young, Sir (said 

he), my affliction would have been light and 

I might have obtained it again ; but I have 

lost my comfort when I most wanted it ; my 
staff is taken from me when I cannot go alone ; 
and I have nothing to expect in future life, but 
the unwilling charity of a parish officer." Never 
in my whole life did I wish to be rich, with so 
good a grace, as at this time ! What a luxury 
would it have been to have said to this afflicted 
fellow-creature, " There is thy money — go thy 
ways — and be at peace." 

But, alas ! the Shandy family were never much 
encumbered with money ; and I (the poorest of 
them all) could only assist him with good coun- 
sel ;- — but I did not stop here. 

I went myself with him to **#**, where, by 
persuasion, threats, and some art, which (by the 
bye) in such a cause, and with such an opponent, 
was very justifiable — -I sent my poor client back 
to his home, with his comfort and his bond re- 
stored to him. Bravo ! Bravo ! 

If a man has a right to be proud of any thing, 
— it is of a good action, done as it ought to be, 
without any base interest lurking at the bottom 

of It, LETTER VI. TO HIS FRIENDS. 



us 

FORGIVENESS OF INJURIES. 

IT is the mild and quiet half of the world? 
who are generally outraged and borne down by 
the other half of it ; but in this they have the ad- 
vantage, whatever be the sense of their wrongs, 
that pride stands not so watchful a sentinel over 
their forgiveness, as it does in the breasts of the 
fierce and froward ; we should all of us, I be- 
lieve, be more forgiving than we are, would the 
world but give us leave ; but it is apt to interpose 
its ill offices in remissions, especially of this kind ; 
the truth is, it has its laws, to which the heart is 
not always a party ; and acts so like an unfeeling 
engine in all cases without distinction, that it re- 
quires all the firmness of the most settled humani- 
ty to bear up against it. serm. xviii. p. 61 » 



HAPPINESS, 

THE great pursuit of man is after hap- 
piness : it is the first and strongest desire of his 
nature ;- — in every stage of his life, he searches for 
it as for hidden treasure ; courts it under a thou- 
sand different shapes, — and though perpetually 
disappointed,-— still persists, — runs after and en- 
quires for it afresh — asks every passenger who 
comes in his way, Who will shew him any good ? 
who will assist him in the attainment of it, or di- 
rect him to the discovery of this great end of all 
his wishes ? 



159 

He is told by one, to search for it among the 
more gay and youthful pleasures of life, in scenes 
of mirth and sprightliness, where happiness ever 
presides, and is ever to be known by the joy and 
laughter which he will see at once painted in her 
looks. A second, with a graver aspect, points 
out to the costly dwellings which pride and ex- 
travagance have erected : — tells the inquirer, that 
the object he is in search of inhabits there — that 
happiness lives only in company with the great, in 
the midst of much pomp and outward state, that 
he will easily find her out by the coat of many 
colours she has on, and the great luxury and ex- 
pense of equipage and furniture with which she 
always sits surrounded. 

The Miser blesses God l — wonders how any 
one would mislead and wilfully put him upon so 
wrong a scent —convinces him that happiness and 
extravagance never inhabited under the same roof ; 
that if he would not be disappointed in his search, 
he must look into the plain and thrifty dwellings 
of the prudent man, who knows and understands 
the worth of money, and cautiously lays it up 
against an evil hour : that it is not the prostitu- 
tion of wealth upon the passions, or the parting 
with it at all, that constitutes happiness — but that 
it is the keeping it together, and the having and 
holding it fast to him and his heirs for ever, which 
are the chief attributes that form this great idol 
of human worship, to which so much incense is 
offered up every day. 

The Epicure, though he easily rectifies so gross 
a mistake, yet at the same time he plunges him, 



160 

if possible, into a greater ; for hearing the object 
of his pursuit to be happiness, and knowing of no 
other happiness than what is seated immediately 
in his senses — he sends the inquirer there ; tells 
him 'tis vain to search elsewhere for it, than where 
Nature herself has placed it- — in the indulgence 
and gratification of the appetites, which are given 
us for that end ; and, in a word — if he will not 
take his opinion in the matter — he may trust the 
word of a much wiser man, who has assured us — 
that there is nothing better in this world, than 
that a man should eat and drink, and rejoice in 
his works, and make his soul enjoy good in labour : 
for that is his portion. 

To rescue him from this brutal experiment — 
Ambition takes him by the hand, and carries him 
into the world, — shews him all the kingdoms of 
the earth, and the glory of them, points out the 
many ways of advancing his fortune, and raising 
himself to honour,* — lays before his eyes all the 
charms and bewitching temptations of power, and 
asks, if there can be any happiness in this world like 
that of being caressed, courted, flattered, and fol- 
lowed ? 

To close all, the Philosopher meets him bus- 
tling in the full career of his pursuit — stops him 
— tells him, if he is in search of happiness, he is 
far gone out of his way. That this deity has 
long been banished from noise and tumults, where 
there was no rest found for her, and was fled into 
solitude far from all commerce of the world ; and, 
in a word, if he would find her, he must leave 
this busy and intriguing scene, and go back to 



161 

that peaceful scene of retirement and books, from 
which he at first set out. 

In this circle too often does a man run, tries 
all experiments, and generally sits down wearied 
and dissatisfied with them all at last — in utter 
despair of ever accomplishing what he wants — 
nor knowing what to trust to after so many dis- 
appointments ; or where to lay the fault, whether 
In the incapacity of his own nature, or in the in- 
sufficiency of the enjoyments themselves. 

sermon i. p. 1, 



TRIBUTE OF AFFECTION. 

MY heart stops me to pay thee, my dear 
uncle Toby, once for all, the tribute I owe thy 
goodness ; here let me thrust my chair aside, and 
kneel down upon the ground, whilst I am pour- 
ing forth the warmest sentiments of love for thee, 
and veneration for the excellency of thy character, 
.that ever virtue and nature kindled in a nephew's 

bosom.-- Peace and comfort rest for ever more 

upon thy head ! — Thou enviedst no man's com- 
forts, insultedst no man's opinions. — Thou black- 
enedst no man's character, — devouredst no man's 
bread : gently, with faithful Trim behind thee, 
didst thou amble round the little circle of thy 
pleasures, jostling no creature in the way : — for 
each one's sorrows thou hadst. a. tear, — for each 
man's need thou hadst a shilling. Whilst I am 
worth one, to pay a weeder,— thy path from 
thy door to thy bowling-green shall never be 
02 



162, 

grown up — Whilst there is a rood and a half of 
land in the Shandy family, thy fortifications, my 
dear uncle Toby, shall never be demolish'd. 

T. SHANDY, VOL. II. CHAP. 27- 



YORICK^S DEATH A BROKEN HEART. 

THE Mortgager and Mortgagee differ the 
one from the other, not more in length of purse, 
than the Jester and Jestee do, in that of memory. 
But in this the comparison between them runs, 
as the scholastics call it, upon all fours : (which, 
by the bye, is upon one or two legs more 
than some of the best of Homer's can pretend to) ; 
— namely, That the one raises a sum, and the 
other a laugh at your expense, and thinks no more 
about it. Interest, however, still runs on in both 
cases ; — the periodical or accidental payments of 
it, just serving to keep the memory of the affair 

alive ; till at length, in some evil hour, 

pop comes the creditor upon each, and by demand- 
ing principal upon the spot, together with full in- 
terest to the very days, makes them both feel the 
full extent of their obligations. 

As the reader (for I hate your ifs) has a tho- 
rough knowledge of human nature, I need not 
say more to satisfy him, that my Hero could 
not go on at this rate without some slight expe- 
rience of these incidental mementos. To speak 
the truth, he had wantonly involved himself in a 
multitude of small book debts of this stamp, 



163 

which, notwithstanding Eugenius's frequent ad- 
vice, he too much disregarded ; thinking, that as 
not one of them was contracted through any ma- 
lignancy, — but, on the contrary, from an honesty 
of mind, and a mere jocundity of humour, they 
would all of them be cross'd out in course. 

Eugenlus would never admit this ; and would 
often tell him, that one day or other he would 
certainly be reckoned with : and he would often 

add, in an accent of sorrowful apprehension, — 

to the uttermost mite. To which Torlck, with 
his usual carelessness of heart, would as often an- 
swer with a pshaw ! — and if the subject was start- 
ed in the fields, with a hop, skip, and a jump 

at the end of it ; but if close pent up in the social 
chimney-corner, where the culprit was barricado'd 
in, with a table and a couple of arm-chairs, and 
could not so readily fly off in a tangent, — Eugenius 
would then go on with his lecture upon discretion 
in words to this purpose, though somewhat better 
put together. 

Trust me, dear Torick, this unwary pleasantry 
of thine will sooner or later bring thee into scrapes 
and difficulties, which no after-wit can extricate 

thee out of In these sallies, too oft, I see, it 

happens that a person laughed at, considers him- 
self in the light of a person injured, with all the 
rights of such a situation belonging to him ; and 
when thou viewest him in that light too, and reck- 
ons up his friends, his family, his kindred and al- 
lies, and musters up with them the many re- 
cruits that will list under him from a sense 'of 
common danger ; 'tis no extravagant arith- 



164: 

me tie to say, that for every ten jokes,-- — —thou 
hast got an hundred enemies ; and till thou hast 
gone on, and raised a swarm of wasps about thine 
ears, and art half stung to death by them, thou 
wilt never be convinced it is so. 

I cannot suspect it in the man whom I esteem, 
that there is the least spur from spleen, or malevo- 
lence of intent in these sallies — I believe and know 
them to be truly honest and sportive : — But con- 
sider, my dear lad, that fools cannot distinguish 
this, — and that knaves will not ; — and thou know- 
est not what it is, either to provoke the one, or to 
make merry with the other : — whenever they as- 
sociate for mutual defence, depend upon it, they 
will carry on the war in such a manner against 
thee, my dear friend, as to make thee heartily sick 
of it, and of thy life too. 

Revenge, from some baneful corner, shall level 
a tale of dishonour at thee, which no innocence of 
heart or integrity of conduct shall set right. — - — 
The fortunes of thy house shall totter, — thy char- 
acter which led the way to them, shall bleed on 
every side of it, — thy faith questioned, — thy works 
belied — -thy wit forgotten — thy learning trampled 
on. To wind up the last scene of thy tragedy, 
Cruelty and Cowardice, twin ruffians, hired 
and set on by Malice in the dark, shall strike 

together at all thy infirmities and mistakes : 

The best of us, my dear lad, lie open there, — and 
trust me, — trust me, Torick, when to gratify a pri- 
vate appetite, it is once resolved upon, that an innocent 
and an helpless creature shall be sacrificed, 'tis an easy 
matter to pick up sticks enough from any thicket where 
it has strayed, to make afire to offer it up with. 



165 

Torlck scarce ever heard the sad vaticination of 
his destiny read over to him, but with a tear steal- 
ing from his eye, and a promissory look attending 
it, that he was resolved, for the time to come, to 
ride his tit with more sobriety. — But, alas, too 
late ! — a grand confederacy, with ***** and ***** 
at the head of it, was formed before the first pre- 
diction of it. — The whole plan of the attack, just 
as Eugemus had foreboded, was put in execution 
all at once, — with so little mercy on the side of 
the allies,— and so little suspicion in Torick of 
what was carrying on against him, — that when he 
thought, good easy man ! full surely preferment 
was o' ripening, — they had smote his root, and 
then he fell, as many a worthy man had fallen be- 
fore him. 

Torick, however, fought it out with all imagin- 
able gallantry for some time ; till, overpowered 
by numbers, and worn out at length by the ca- 
lamities of the war, — but more so, by the ungen- 
erous manner in which it was carried on, — he threw 
down the sword ; and though he kept up his spir- 
its in appearance to the last, he died, nevertheless, 
as was generally thought, quite broken-hearted. 

What inclined Eiigenlus to the same opinion, 
was as follows : 

A few hours before Torlck breathed his last, 
Eugenius stept in with an intent to take his last 
sigh and farewell of him. Upon his drawing Yor- 
ick's curtain, and asking how he felt himself, Torick 
looked up in his face, took hold of his hand, — and 
after thanking him for the many tokens of his 
friendship to him, for which, he said, if it was 



166 

their fate to meet hereafter, — he would thank him 
again and again, — he told him, he was within a 
few hours of giving his enemies the slip for ever, 
I hope not, answered Eugenius, with tears trickling 
down his cheek, and with the tenderest tone that 

ever man spoke, — I hope not Torick, said he. 

Torick replied with a look up, and a gentle squeeze 
of Eugenius' s hand, and that was all,-— but it cut 
Eugenius to the heart, — -Come, — come, Torick* 
quoth Eugenius, wiping his eyes, and summoning 
up the man within him, my dear lad, be comfort- 
ed,— let not all thy spirits and fortitude forsake 
thee at this crisis when thou most wants them ; — i 
who knows what resources are in store, and what 
the power of God may yet do for thee 8— Torick 
laid his hand upon his heart, and gently shook his 
head ; — For my part, cried Eugenius, crying bit- 
terly as he uttered the words, — I declare I know 
not, Torick, how to part with thee, and would 
gladly flatter my hopes, added Eugenius, cheering 
up his voice, that there is still enough left of thee 
to make a bishop, and that I may live to see it. — 
I beseech thee, Eugenius, quoth Torick, taking off 
his night-cap as well as he could with his left hand, 
—his right hand being still grasped close in that 

of Eugenius, 1 beseech thee to take a view of 

my head.- — I see nothing that ails it, replied Eu- 
geniiis. Then, alas ! my friend, said Torick, let 
me tell you, that 'tis so bruised and mis-shapened 
with the blows which ***** and *****, and some 
others have so unhandsomely given me in the dark, 
that I might say with Sanco Panca, that should I 
recover, and " Mitres thereupon be suffered to rain 



167 

down from heaven as thick as hail, not one of them 
would fit it." — Tench? s last breath was hanging 
upon his trembling lips ready to depart as he ut- 
tered this ; yet still it was uttered with some- 
thing of a Cervantic tone ; and as he spoke it, 

Eugenlus could perceive a stream of lambent fire 
lighted up for a moment in his eyes ; ■ — -faint pic- 
ture of those flashes of his spirit, which (as Shak- 
speare said of his ancestor) were wont to set the 
table in a roar ! 

Eugenlus was convinced from this, that the heart 
of his friend was broke : he squeezed his hand, — 
and then walked softly out of the room, weeping 
as he walked. Torlck followed Eugenlus with his 

eyes to the door,- he then closed them, — and 

never opened them more. 

He lies buried in the corner of his church-yard, 

in the parish of , under a plain marble slab, 

which his friend Eugenlus^ by leave of his execu- 
tors, laid upon his grave, with no more than these 
words of inscription, serving both for his epitaph 
and elegy. 



Alas, poor YORICK ! 



Ten times a day has TorlcPs ghost the consola- 
tion to hear the monumental inscription read over 
with such a variety of plaintive tones, as denote a 

general pity and esteem for him ; -a footway 

crossing the church-yard close by the side of his 
grave, ; i not a passenger goes by without stop- 



168 

ping to cast a look upon it, — and sighing as he 
walks on, 

Alas, poor YO RICK! 

T. SHANDY, VOL. I. C. 12* 



POWER OF SLIGHT INCIDENTS. 

IT is curious to observe the triumph of 
slight incidents over the mind ; — and what incred- 
ible weight they have in forming and governing 
our opinions, both of men and things — that trifles 
light as air, shall waft a belief into the soul, and 
plant it so immoveable within it, that Euclid's 
demonstrations, could they be brought to batter it 
in breach, should not all have power to overthrow it. 

T. SHANDY, VOL. II. CHAP. 62. 



CROSSES IN LIFE. 

MANY, many are the ups and downs of 
life, fortune must be uncommonly gracious to that 
mortal who does not experience a great variety of 
them ; — though perhaps to these may be owing as 
much of our pleasures as our pains ; there are 
scenes of delight in the vale as well as in the 
mountain ; and the inequalities of nature may not 
be less necessary to please the eye — than the vari- 
eties of life to improve the heart. At best, we 
are but a short-sighted race of beings, with just 



169 

light enough to discern our way. — To do that is 
our duty, and should be our care ; when a man 
has done this, he is safe ; the rest is of little con- 
sequence - 



Cover his head with a turf or a stone y 
If is all one, it is all one ! 



LETTER IV. TO HIS FRIENDS* 



THE CONTRAST. 

THINGS are carried on in this world, 
sometimes so contrary to all our reasonings, and 
the seeming probability of success,- — that even the 
race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the 
strong ; — nay, what is stranger still, nor yet bread 
to the wise, who should least stand in want of it,« — 
nor yet riches to the men of understanding, whom 
you would think best qualified to acquire them, — 
nor yet favour to men of skill, whose merit and 
pretences bid the fairest for it, — but that there 
are some secret and unseen workings in human 
affairs, which baffle all our endeavours, and turn 
aside the course of things in such a manner,- — that 
the most likely causes disappoint and fail of pro- 
ducing for us the effect which we wish, and nat- 
urally expected from them. 

You will see a man, of whom were you to forrn 
a conjecture frcm the appearance of things in his 
favour, — -you would say, was setting out in the 
world with the fairest prospect of making his for- 
tune in it ;— with all the advantages of birth to 
P 



170 

recommend him, of personal merit to speak for 
him,—- and of friends to push him forwards : you 
will behold him, notwithstanding this, disappoint- 
ed in every effect you might naturally have looked 
for, from them ; every step he takes towards his 
advancement, something invisible shall pull him 
back, some unforeseen obstacle shall rise up per- 
petually in his way, and keep there. — In every 
application he makes — some untoward circum- 
stance shall blast it. — He shall rise early, — late 
take rest, and eat the bread of carefulness, — yet 
some happier man shall rise up, and ever step in 
before him, and leave him struggling to the end 
of his life, in the very same place in which he first 
began. 

The history of a second shall in all respects be 
the contrast to this. He shall come into the 
world with the most unpromising appearance, — 
shall set forward without fortune, without friends 
— without talents to procure him either the one 
or the other. Nevertheless you will see this 
clouded prospect brighten up insensibly, unac- 
countably before him ; every thing presented in 
his way shall turn out beyond his expectations, in 
spite of that chain of unsurmountable difficulties 
which first threatened him, — time and chance 
shall open him a way, — a series of successful oc- 
currences shall lead him by the hand to the sum- 
mit of honour and fortune ; and, in a word, with- 
out giving him the pains of thinking, or the credit 
of projecting, it shall place him in a safe possess- 
ion of all that ambition could wish for. 

SERMON VIII. p. 152. 



171 

DR. SLOP AND OBADIAH, MEETING. 

IMAGINE to yourself, a little, squat, 
uncourtly figure of a Dr. Slop, of about four feet 
and a half perpendicular height, with a breadth of 
back, and a susquipedality of belly, which might 
have done honour to a Serjeant in the horse-guards. 

Such were the outlines of Dr. Slop's figure, 
which — if you have read Hogarth's analysis of 
beauty, (and if you have not, I wish you would ;) 
—you must know, may as certainly be caricatur- 
ed, and conveyed to the mind by three strokes as 
three hundred. 

Imagine such a one, — -for such, I say, were the 
outlines of Dr. Slop's figure, coming slowly along, 
foot by foot, waddling through the dirt upon the 
vertebrae of a little diminutive pony, of a pretty 
colour — but of strength — alack ! scarce able to 
have made an amble of it, under such a fardel, 
had the roads been in an ambling condition. — 

They were not. Imagine to yourself, Obadlah 

mounted upon a strong monster of a coach-horse, 
pricked into a full gallop, and making all practi- 
cable speed the adverse way. 

Pray, Sir, let me interest you a moment in this 
description. 

Had Dr. Slop beheld Obadlah a mile off, post- 
ing in a narrow lane directly towards him, at that 
monstrous rate, — splashing and plunging like a 
devil through thick and thin as he approached? 
would not such a phenomenon, with such a vortex 
of mud and water moving along with it, round its 
axis, — have been a subject of juster apprehension 



172 

to Dr. Slop in his situation, than the worst of 
Whhton'% comets ? — To say nothing of the Nu- 
cleus ; that is, of Ohadlah and the coach-horse, 
— ^-In my idea, the vortex alone of 'em was enough 
to have involved and carried, if not the doctor, at 
least the doctor's pony, quite away with it. 

What then do you think must the terror and 
hydrophobia of Dr. Slop have been when you read 
(which you are just going to do) that he was ad- 
vancing thus warily along towards Shandy Hall^ 
and had approached to within sixty yards of it, 
and within five yards of a sudden turn, made by 
an acute angle of the garden wall, — and in the 
dirtiest part of a dirty lane, — when Obadiah and 
his coach-horse turned the corner, rapid, furious, 
— pop, — full upon him ! — Nothing, I think, in 
nature can be supposed more terrible than such a 
rencounter, — so imprompt ! so ill prepared to 
stand the shock of it as Dr. Slop was ! . 

What could Dr. Slop do ? he crossed him- 
self Pugh ! — but the doctor, Sir, was a Pa- 
pist. No matter ; he had better have kept 

hold of the pummel. —He ha^d so ; nay, as it 
happened, he had better have done nothing at all ; 
for in crossing himself he let go his whip, — and 
in attempting to save his whip between his knee 
and his saddle's skirt, as it slipped, he lost his 
stirrup, — in losing which he lost his seat ; and in 
the multitude of all these losses (which, by the 
bye, shew what little advantage there is in cross - 
ing) the unfortunate doctor lost his presence of 
mind. So that without waiting for Ohad'iah\ 
onset, he left his pony to its destiny, tumbling off' 



US 

it diagonally, something in the style and manner 
of a pack of wool, and without any other conse- 
quence from the fall, save that of being left (as it 
would have been) with the broadest part of him 
sunk about twelve inches deep in the mire. 

Obadlah pulPd off his cap twice to Dr. Slop ;— 
once as he was falling, — and then again when he 

saw him seated. Ill-timed complaisance ; — 

had not the fellow better have stopped his horse, 
and got off, and helped him ?- — Sir, he did all that 
his situation would allow ; — but the Momentum 
of the coach-horse was so great, that Obadlah 
could not do it all at once ; he rode in a circle 
three times round Dr. Slop, before he could fully 
accomplish it any how ; and at last, when he did 
stop the beast, 'twas done with such an explosion 
of mud, that Obadlah had better have been a league 
off. In short, never was a Dr. Slop so beluted, 
and so transubstantiated, since that affair came 
into fashion. 

TRISTRAM SHANDY, C. XXXV. P. 187* 



SELFISHNESS AND MEANNESS, 

THAT th$re is selfishness and meanness 
enough in the souls of one part of the world, to 
hurt the credit of the other part of it, is what I 
shall not dispute against ; but to judge of the 
w T hole from this bad sample, and because one man 
is plotting, and artful in his nature ; — or, a 
second openly makes his pleasure or his profit the 
P2 



174 

whole centre of all his designs ; — or, because a 
third strait-hearted wretch sits confined within 
himself,— -feels no misfortunes, but those which 
touch himself : to involve the whole race without 
mercy under such detested characters, is a con- 
clusion as false as it is pernicious ; and were it in 
general to gain credit, could serve no end, but the 
rooting out of our nature all that is generous, and 
planting in the stead of it such an aversion to each 
other, as must untie the bands of society, and rob 
us of one of the greatest pleasures of it, the mu- 
tual communications of kind offices ; and by pois- 
oning the fountain, rendering every thing suspect-? 
ed that flows through it. serm. vii. p. 137* 



VICE NOT WITHOUT USE. 

THE lives of bad men are not without 
use, — and whenever such a one is drawn, not with 
a corrupt view to be admired, — but on purpose to 
be detested — it must excite such a horror against 
vice, as will strike indirectly the same good im- 
pression. And though it is painful to the last 
degree to paint a man in the shades which his vices 
have cast upon him, yet when it serves this end, it 
carries its own excuse with it. 

SERM. IX. P. 173. 



VI 5 

yorick's opinion of gravity. 

SOMETIMES, in his wild way of talk- 
ing, he would say, that gravity was an arrant 
scoundrel ; and he would add, of the most dan- 
gerous kind too,— because a sly one ; and that 
he verily believed, more honest, well-meaning 
people were bubbled out of their goods and money 
by it in one twelvemonth, than by pocket-picking 
and shop-lifting in seven. In the naked temper 
which a merry heart discovered, he would say, 
there was no danger, — but to itself : — whereas 
the very essence of gravity was design, and con- 
sequently deceit ; — 'twas a taught trick to gain 
credit of the world for more sense and knowl- 
edge than a man was worth ; and that, with all 
its pretensions, — it was no better, but often worse, 
than what a French wit had long ago defined it, 
viz. — A mysterious carriage of the body to cover 
the defects of the mind. 

T. SHANDY, VOL. I. C. 2. 



THE INTERRUPTION. 

WHEN my father received the letter 
which brought him the melancholy account of my 
brother Bobby's death, he was busy calculating 
the expense of his riding post from Calais to Paris, 
and so on to Lyons. 

'Twas a most inauspicious journey ; my father 
having had every foot of it to travel over again, 



176 

and his calculation to begin afresh, when he had 
almost got to the end of it, by Obadiah* s opening 
the door to acquaint him the family was out of 
yeast — and to ask whether he might not take the 
great coach-horse early in the morning and ride 
in search of some. — With all my heart, Obadiah, 
said my father (pursuing his journey) — take the 
coach-horse, and welcome. — But he wants a shoe, 
poor creature ! said Obadiah* — Poor creature ! 
said my uncle Toby-, vibrating the note back again, 
like a string in unison. Then ride the Scotch 
horse, quoth my father hastily. — He cannot bear 
a saddle upon his back, quoth Obadiah, for the 
whole world. — The devil's in that horse ; then 
take Patriot, cried my father ; and shut the 

door. Patriot is sold, said Obadiah. Here's 

for you ! cried my father, making a pause, and 
looking in my uncle Toby's face, as if the thing 
had not been a matter of fact. — Your worship 
ordered me to sell him last April* said Obadiah, — 
Then go on foot for your pains, cried my father 
1 had much rather walk than ride, said Oba- 
diah, shutting the door. 

What plagues i cried my father, going on with 
his calculation. — But the waters are out, said 
Obadiah* opening the door again. 

Till that moment, my father, who had a map 
of Sanson's, and a book of the post-roads before 
him, had kept his hand upon the head of his com- 
passes, with one foot of them fixed upon Nev?rs 9 
the last stage he had paid for — purposing to go 
on from that point with his journey and calcula- 
tion, as soon as Obadiah quitted the room ; but 



177 

this second attack of Qiadiah's, in opening the 
door, and laying the whole country under water, 
was too much. — He let go his compasses — or 
rather, with a mixed motion between accident and 
anger, he threw them upon the table : and then 
there was nothing for him to do, but to return 
back to Calais, (like many others) as wise as lie 
had set out. t. shandy, vol. hi. p. 13. 



REFLECTION UPON MAN. 

WHEN I reflect upon man ; and take a 
view of that dark side of him which represents his 
life as open to so many causes of trouble — when I 
consider how oft we eat the bread of affliction, and 
that we are born to it, as to the portion of our 
inheritance— when one runs over the catalogue of 
all the cross reckonings and sorrowful items with 
which the heart of man is over-charged, 'tis won- 
derful by what hidden resources the mind is ena- 
bled to stand it out, and bear itself up as it does, 
against the impositions laid upon our nature. 

T. SHANDY, VOL. If. CHAP. 42. 



EJACULATION. 



TIME wastes too fast ; every letter I 
trace tells me with what rapidity life follows my 
pen ; the days and hours of it, more precious, my 



178 

dear Jenny ! than the rubies about thy neck, are 
flying over our heads like light clouds of a windy 
day, never to return more-— every thing presses on 
—whilst thou art twisting that lock, — see ! it 
grows grey ; and every time I kiss thy hand to 
bid adieu, and every absence which follows it, are 
preludes to that eternal separation which we are 
shortly to make. t. shandy, vol. iv. c. 67. 



LIFE OF MAN. 

WHAT is the life of man ! is it not to 
shift from side to side ; — from sorrow to sorrow ? 
— to button up one cause of vexation, — and un- 
button another ! t. shandy, vol. ii. c. 66. 



trim's explanation of the fifth 
commandment. 

PR'YTHEE, Trim, quoth my fa- 

ther, — What dost thou mean, by " honouring thy 
father and thy mother ?" 

Allowing them, an't please your honour, three, 
half-pence a day out of my pay when they grow 
old. — And didst thou do that, Trim P said T oriel. 
— He did, indeed, replied my uncle Toby — Then, 
Trim, said Toriel, springing out of his chair, and 
taking the Corporal by the hand, thou art the 
best commentator upon that part of the Deca- 



• 179 

iogue ; and I honour thee more for it, Corporal 
Trim, than if thou hadst a hand in the Talmud itself. 

T. SHANDY, V. III. C. 32. 



HEALTH. 



O BLESSED health ! thou art above 
all gold and treasure ; 'tis thou who enlargest the 
soul, — and openest all its powers to receive in- 
struction, and to relish virtue. — He that has thee 
has little more to wish for ! and he that is so 
wretched as to want thee, — wants every thing 
with thee. 

T. SHANDY, V. III. C. 33. 



SOLITUDE. 

CROWDED towns, and busy societies, 
may delight the unthinking, and the gay — but 
solitude is the best nurse of wisdom. 

In solitude the mind gains strength, and learns 
to lean upon herself : in the world it seeks or ac- 
cepts of a few treacherous supports — the feigned 
compassion of one — the flattery of a second — the 
civilities of a third — the friendship of a fourth — 
they all deceive, and bring the mind back to re- 
tirement, reflection, and books. 

LETTER LXXXII 9 



180 

I LATTERY. 

DELICIOUS essence ! how refreshing 
art thou to nature ! how strongly are all its pow- 
ers and all its weaknesses on thy side ! how sweet- 
ly dost thou mix with the blood, and help it 
through the most difficult and tortuous passages 
to the heart. sent, journey, p. 210. 



FORGIVENESS. 

THE brave only know how to forgive ;~ 
it is the most refined and generous pitch of virtue 
human nature can arrive at.— -Cowards have done 
good and kind actions*, — cowards have even 
fought, nay sometimes, even conquered ; but a 
coward never forgave. — It is not in his nature ; — 
the power of doing it flows only from a strength 
and greatness of soul, conscious of its own force 
and security, and above the little temptations of 
resenting every fruitless attempt to interrupt its 
happiness. serm. xn. p. 244. 



FAVOURS. 



IN returning favours, we act differently 
from what we do in conferring them : in the one 
case we simply consider what is best,— in tit* 



Christian Hero- 



181 

Other, what is most acceptable. The reason is, 
that we have a right to act according to our own 
ideas of what will do the party most good, in the 
case where we bestow a favour ; — but where we 
return one, we lose this right, and act according 
to his conceptions who has obliged us, and en- 
deavour to repay in such a manner as we think 
it most likely to be accepted in discharge of- the 
obligation, serm. xiii. p. 260. 



RUSTIC FELICITY. 

MANY are the silent pleasures of the 
honest peasant ; who rises cheerfully to his la- 
bour : — look into his dwelling, — where the scene 
of every happiness chiefly lies : — he has the same 
domestic endearments,- — as much joy and comfort 
in his children, and as flattering hopes of their do- 
ing well, — to enliven his hours and glad his heart, 
as you could conceive in the most affluent station. 
— And I make no doubt, in general, but if the 
true account of his joys and sufferings were to be 
balanced with those of his betters, — that the up- 
shot would prove to be little more than this, — 
that the rich man had the more meat, — but the 
poor man the better stomach ; the one had more 
luxury, — more able physicians to attend and set 
him to rights ; — the other more health and sound- 
ness in his bones, and less occasion for their help ; 
that, after these two articles betwixt them were 
balanced, — in all other things they stood upon a 

Q 



182 

level : — that the sun shines as warm, — the air 
blows as fresh, — and the earth breathes as fragrant 
upon the one as the other : and that they have 
an equal share in all the beauties and real benefits 
of nature. serm. xliv. p. 160. 



DIFFERENCE IN MEN. 

POVERTY, exile, loss of fame or friends, 
the death of children, the dearest of all pledges of 
a man's happiness, make not equal impressions 
upon every temper. You will see one man un- 
dergo, with scarce the expense of a sigh, — what 
another, in the bitterness of his soul, would go 
mourning for all his life long : — nay, a hasty 
word, or an unkind look, to a soft and tender na- 
ture, will strike deeper than a sword to the hard- 
ened and senseless. — If those reflections hold true 
with regard to misfortunes, — they are the same 
with regard to enjoyments : — we are formed dif- 
ferently, — and have different tastes and perceptions 
of things ; — by the force of habit, education, ©r 
a particular cast of mind, — -it happens that neither 
the use or possession of the same enjoyments and 
advantages, produce the same happiness and con- 
tentment ;— but that it differs in every man almost 
according to his temper and complexion : so that 
the self-same happy accidents in life, which give 
raptures to the choleric or sanguine man, shall be 
received with indifference by the cold and phleg- 
matic ;— and so oddly perplexed are the accounts 



1 83 

of both human happiness and misery in this world* 
— that trifles, light as air, shall be able to make 
the hearts of some men sing for joy ;— at the 
same time that others, with real blessings and ad- 
vantages, without the power qf using them, have 
their hearts heavy and discontented. 

Alas ! if the principles of contentment are not 

within us the height of station or worldly 

grandeur will as soon add a cubit to a man's staU 
ure as to his happiness. serm. xliv. p. 258, 



AGAINST HASTY OPINION. 

THERE are numbers of circumstances 
which attend every action of a man's life, which 
can never come to the knowledge of the world, — 
yet ought to be known, and well weighed, before 
sentence with any justice can be passed upon him. 
A man may have different views, and a dif- 
ferent sense of things from what his judges have ; 
and what he understands and feels, and what 
passes within him, may be a secret treasured up 

deeply there for ever. A man, through bodily 

infirmity, or some complexional defect, which per- 
haps is not in his power to correct, may be sub- 
ject to inadvertences, — to starts, — and unhappy 
turns of temper ; he may lie open to snares he is not 
always aware of ; or, through ignorance and want 
of information and proper helps, he may labour in 
the dark : — in all which cases he may do many 
things which are wrong in themselves, and yet be 



184 

innocent ; — at least an object rather to be pitied, 

than censured with severity and ill-wilL These 

are difficulties which stand in every one's way in 
the forming a judgment of the characters of oth- 
ers. A SERM. XL!V. p. 255. 



VANITY. 



VANITY bids all her sons be generous 
and brave, and her daughters to be chaste and 
courteous. — But why do we want her instruc- 
tions ? Ask the comedian, who is taught a part 
he feels not. sermon xvii. p. 45. 



AFFECTED HONESTY. 

LOOK out of your door, — take notice of 
that man : see what disquieting, intriguing and 
shifting, he is content to go through, merely to be 
thought a man of plain-dealing — three grains of 
honesty would save him all this trouble — -alas ! he 
has them not. serm. xvii. p. 45. 



AFFECTED PIETY. 



BEHOLD a second, under a show of 
piety, hiding the impurities of a debauched life ; 



185 

— he is just entering the house of God : would 
he were more pure — or less pious ; — but then he 
could not gain his point. serm. xvii. p. 46. 



AFFECTED SANCTITY. 

OBSERVE a third going on almost in 
the same track, with what an inflexible sanctitude 
of deportment he sustains himself as he advances 
— every line in his face writes abstinence ; — every 
stride looks like a check upon his desires : see, I 
beseech you, how he is cloak'd up with sermons, 
prayers, and sacraments ; and so bemuffled with 
the externals of religion, that he has not a hand 
to spare for a worldly purpose ; — he has armour at 
least — Why does he put it on ? Is there no serv- 
ing God without all this ? Must the garb of re- 
ligion be extended so wide to the danger of its 
rending ? Yes, truly, or it will not hide the secret 
— and what is that ? — That the saint has no re- 
ligion at all. ibid. p. 46. 



OSTENTATIOUS GENEROSITY. 



-BUT here comes Generosity ;— 



giving — not to a decayed artist — but to the arts 

and sciences themselves, See ! — he builds not 

a chamber the wall apart for the prophet ; but 
whole schools and colleges for those who come af- 
Q2 



186 

ier. Lord ! how they will magnify his name ! 
'tis in capitals already ; the first, the highest, in 
the gilded rent-roll of every hospital and asylum. 
— One honest tear shed in private over the un- 
fortunate is worth it all. serm. xvii. p. 47- 



WIT AND JUDGMENT. 

HOW comes it to pass, that your men of 
least wit are reported to be men of most judgment P 

« But mark, — I say, reported to be—for it is no 

more, my dear Sirs, than a report, and which, 
like twenty others taken up every day upon trust, 
I maintain to be a vile and a malicious report into 
the bargain. 

I hate set dissertations -and above all things 

in the world, 'tis one of the silliest things in one 
of them, to darken your hypothesis by placing a 
number of tall, opake words, one before another 
in a right line, betwixt your own and your read- 
er's conception — when, in all likelihood, if you 
had looked about, you might have seen something 
standing, or hanging up, which would have cleared 

the point at once " for what hindrance, hurt, 

or harm doth the laudable desire of knowledge 
bring to any man, even from a sot, a pot, a fool, a 
stool, a winter mittain, a truckle for a pulley, the 
lid of a goldsmith's crucible, an oil bottle, an old 

slipper, or a cane chair l" 1 am this moment 

sitting upon one. Will you give me leave to il- 
lustrate this affair of wit and judgment by the two 



187 

knobs on the top of the back of it : — —they are 
fastened on, you see, with two pegs stuck slightly 
into two gimblet-holes, and will place what I have 
to say in so clear a light, as to let you see through 
the drift and meaning of my whole preface, as 
plainly as if every point and particle of it was made 
up of sun-beams. 

I enter now directly upon the point. 

Here stands wit — and there stands judgment, 
close beside it, just like the two knobs I'm speak- 
ing of, upon the back of this self-same chair on 
which I am sitting. 

— You see, they are the highest and most or- 
namental parts of its frame — as wit and judgment 
are of ours — and like them too, indubitably both 
made and fitted to go together, in order, as we 
say in all such cases of duplicated embellishments 
— — to answer one another. < 

Now, for the sake of an experiment, and for the 
clearer illustrating this matter— -let us for a mo- 
ment take off one of these two curious ornaments 
(I care not which) from the point or pinnacle of 
the chair it now stands on — nay, don't laugh at it, 
— but did you ever see, in the whole course of 
your lives, such a ridiculous business as this has 
made of it ? — Why, 'tis as miserable a sight as a 
sow with one ear ; and there is just as much sense 

and symmetry in the one as in the other :— do 

— — P^ay, get off your seats only to take a view 
of it ! — Now would any man who valued his 
character a straw, have turned a piece of work out 
of his hand in such a condition ?— - nay, lay your 
hands upon your hearts, and answer this plain 



188 

question, Whether this one single knob, which 
now stands here like a blockhead by itself, can 
serve any purpose upon earth, but to put one in 
mind of the want of the other ? — and let me far- 
ther ask, in case the chair was your own, If you 
would not in your consciences think, rather than 
be as it is, that it would be ten times better with- 
out any knob at ail ? 

Now these two knobs or top ornaments of 

the mind of man, which crown the whole entabla- 
ture — being, as I said, wit and judgment, which 
of all others, as I have proved it, are the most 

needful the most priz'd — the most calamitous 

to be without, and consequently the hardest to 
come at — for all these reasons put together, there 
is not a mortal among us, so destitute of a love of 
good fame or feeling — or so ignorant of what will 
do him good therein — who does not wish and 
steadfastly resolve in his own mind, to be, or to be 
thought at least, master of the one or the other, 
and indeed of both of them, if the thing seems any 
way feasible, or likely to be brought .to pass. 

Now your graver gentry having little or no 
kind of chance in aiming at the one — unless they 

lay hold of the other, pray, what do you think 

would become of them ?— Why, Sirs, in spite of 
all their gravities, they must e'en have been con- 
tented to have gone with their in sides naked : 

this was not to be borne, but by an effort 

of philosophy not to be supposed in the case we 
are upon— so that no one could well have been 
angry with them, had they been satisfied with 
what little they could have snatched up and sq- 



189 

creted under their cloaks and great periwigs, had 
they not raised a hue and cry at the same time 
against the lawful owners. 

I need not tell your worships, that this was 
done with so much cunning and artifice—that the 
great Locke > who w^as seldom outwitted by false 
sounds — was nevertheless bubbled here. The 
cry, it seems, was so deep and solemn a one, and 
what with the help of great wigs, grave faces, and 
other implements of deceit, was rendered so gen- 
eral a one against the poor wits in this matter, that 
the philosopher himself was deceived by it — it was 
liis glory to free the world from the lumber of a 
thousand vulgar errors ; but this was not of the 
number ; so that instead of sitting down coolly, 
as such a philosopher should have done, to have 
examined the matter of fact before he philosophised 
upon it — on the contrary, he took the fact for 
granted, and so joined in with the cry, and hallooM 
it as boisterously as the rest. 

This has been the Magna Charta of stupidity 

ever since but your reverences plainly see, it 

has been obtained in such a manner, that the ti- 
tle to it is not worth a groat : — which, by the 
bye, is one of the many and vile impositions which 
gravity and grave folks have to answer for here- 
after. 

As for great wigs, upon which I may be thought 
to have spoken my mind too freely — I beg leave 
to qualify whatever has been unguardedly said to 
their dispraise or prejudice, by one general decla- 
ration — that I have no abhorrence whatever, nor 
do I detest and abjure either great wigs or long 



190 

beards, any farther than when I see they are be- 
spoke and let grow on purpose to carry on this 
self-same imposture — for any purpose — — peace 

be with them ! gj* mark only — 

I write not for them. 

T. SHANDY, VOL. II. CHAP. 13. 



OPINION. 

WE are perpetually in such engagements 
and situations, that 'tis our duties to speak what 
our opinions are — but God forbid that this should 
ever be done but from its best motive — the sense 
of what is due to virtue, governed by discretion, 
and the utmost fellow-feeling : were we to go on 
otherwise, beginning with the great broad cloak 
of hypocrisy, and so down through all its little 
trimmings and facings, tearing away without mer- 
cy all that look'd seemly, — we should leave but a 
tatter' d world of it. serm. xvii. p. 50. 



DEFAMATION. 

DOES humanity clothe and educate the 
unknown orphan ? Poverty, thou hast no gen- 
ealogies : — See ! is he not the father of the child ? 
Thus do we rob heroes of the best part of their 
glory — their virtue. Take away the motive of 
the act, you take away all that is worth having in 



191 

it : — wrest it to ungenerous ends, you load the 
virtuous man who did it with infamy : — undo it 
all— I beseech you, give him back his honour,— -re- 
store the jewel you have taken from him — replace 
him in the eye of the world — 

It is too late. ibid. p. 52. 



RELIGION. 

THE RE are no principles but those of re- 
ligion to be depended on in cases of real distress ? 
and these are able to encounter the worst emer- 
gencies, and to bear us up, under all the changes 
and chances to which our life is subject. 

serm. xv. p, 12. 



ELOQUENCE. 

GREAT is the power of eloquence ; but 
never is it so great as when it pleads along with 
nature, and the culprit is a child strayed from his 
duty, and returned to it again with tears. 

SERM. XX. P. 101. 



GENEROSITY. 

GENEROSITY sorrows as much for the 
over-matched, as Pity herself does. ibid. 



192 

CORPORAL TRIM*S DEFINITION 01 
RADICAL HEAT AND MOISTURE. 

I INFER, an' please your worship, re- 
plied Trim, that the radical moisture is nothing in 
the world but ditch-water — and that the radical 
heat, of those who can go to the expense of it, is 
burnt brandy — the radical heat and moisture of a 
private man, an' please your honours, is nothing 

but ditch-water — and a dram of geneva and 

give us but enough of it, with a pipe of tobacco, 
to give us spirits, and drive away the vapours — - 
we know not what it is to fear death. 

I am at a loss, Captain Shandy, quoth Doctor 
Slop, to determine in which branch of learning 
your servant shines most, whether in physiology 
or divinity. — Slop had not forgot Trim's comment 
upon the sermon. 

It is but an hour ago, replied Torick, since the 
Corporal was examined in the latter, and pass'd 
muster with great honour. 

The radical heat and moisture, quoth Doctor 
Slop, turning to my father, you must know is the 
basis and foundation of our being — as the root of 
a tree is the source and principle of its vegetation, 
it is inherent in the seeds of all animals, and may 
be preserved sundry ways, but principally, in my 
opinion, by consubstantials, impriments, and occlu~ 

dents.—— ■ Now this poor fellow, continued 

Doctor Slop, pointing to the Corporal, has had 
the misfortune to have heard some superficial em- 
piric discourse upon this nice point*— That he 



193 

has, — -said my father. Very likely , said my 

uncle. I'm sure of it, quoth Tor'tch.— 

T. SHANDY, VOL. III. CHAP. 40. 



SOCIETY. 

NOTWITHSTANDING all we meet 
with in books, in many of which, no doubt, there 
are a good many handsome things said upon the 
sweets of retirement, &c. — yet still " it is not good 
for man to be alone .•" nor can all which the cold- 
hearted pedant stuns our ears with upon the sub- 
ject, ever give one answer of satisfaction to the 
mind ; in the midst of the loudest vauntings of 
philosophy, Nature will have her yearnings for so- 
ciety and friendship ; — a good heart wants some 
object to be kind to — and the best parts of our 
blood, and the purest of our spirits, suffer most 
under the destitution. 

Let the torpid Monk seek heaven comfortless 

and alone God speed him ! For my own part, 

I fear, I should never so find the way : let me be 
wise and religious — but let me be man : wherever 
thy Providence places me, or whatever be the 
road I take to get to thee — give me some com- 
panion in my journey, be it only to remark to, 
how our shadows lengthen as the sun goes down ; 
— to whom I may say, How fresh is the face of 
Nature ! How sweet the flowers of the field ? 
How delicious are these fruits ! 

serm. xvm. p. 60c 
R 



194 

DISSATISFACTION. 

I PITY the men whose natural pleasures 
are burdens, and who fly from joy (as these splen- 
etic and morose souls do) as if it was really an evil 
in itself. sermon xxii. p. 145. 



SORROW AND HEAVINESS OF HEART* 

IF there is an evil in this world, 'tis sor- 
row and heaviness of heart — The loss of goods, — 
of health, of coronets and mitres, are only evils 
as they occasion sorrow ; — take that out — the 
rest is fancy, and dwelleth only in the head of man. 

Poor unfortunate creature that he is ! as if 
the causes of anguish in the heart were not enow 
— but he must fill up the measure with those of 
caprice ; and not only walk in a vain shadow, — 
but disquiet himself in vain too. 

We are a restless set of beings ; and as we are 
likely to continue so to the end of the world, — 
the best we can do in it, is to make the same use 
of this part of our character, which wise men do 
of other bad propensities — when they find they 
cannot conquer them, — they endeavour, at least, 
to divert them into good channels. 

If therefore we must be a solicitous race of self- 
tormentors, — let us drop the common objects 
which make us so, and for God's sake be so- 
licitous only to live well. 

sermon xxix. p. 145. i 



195 

ROOTED OPINION NOT EASILY 
ERADICATED. 

HOW difficult you will find it to convince 
a miserly heart, that any thing is good which is 
not profitable ! or a libertine one, that any thing 
is bad, which is pleasant ! 

sermon xxiii. p. 163. 



DEATH. 



THERE are many instances of men, who 
have received the news of death with the greatest 
ease of mind, and even entertained the thoughts 
of it with smiles upon their countenances ; 
and this, either from strength of spirits and the 
natural cheerfulness of their temper, — or that they 
knew the world, and cared not for it — or expect- 
ed a better — yet thousands of good men, with all 
the helps of philosophy, and against all the assur- 
ances of a well-spent life, that the change must 
be to their account, — upon the approach of death 
have still lean'd towards this world, and wanted 
spirits and resolution to bear the shock 6f a sepa- 
ration from it for ever. 

SERMON XVIII. p. 37. 



SORROW. 



SWEET is the look of sorrow for an of- 
fence, in a heart determined never to commit it 



196 

more ! — — upon that altar only could I offer up 
my wrongs. serm. xviii. p. 61. 



SIMPLICITY, 



SIMPLICITY is the great friend to na- 
ture ; and if I would be proud of any thing in 
this silly world, it should be of this honest alliance* 
sermon xxiv. p. 187. 



COVETOUSNESS. 

TO know truly what it is, we must know 
what masters it serves ; — they are many, and of 
various casts and humours, — and each one lends it 
something of its own complexional tint and char- 
acter. 

This, I suppose, may be the cause that there is 
a greater and more whimsical mystery in the love 
of money, than in the darkest and most nonsen- 
sical problem that ever was pored on. 

Even at the best, and when the passion seems 
to seek something more than its own amusement, 
— there is little — very little, I fear, to be said for 
its humanity. — It may be a sport to the miser,— 
but consider, — it must be death and destruction 
to others. — The moment this sordid humour 
begins to govern — farewell all honest and natural 
affection ! farewell, all he owes to parents, to 



197 

children, to friends ! — how fast the obligations 
vanish ! see — he is now stripped of all feelings 
whatever : the shrill cry of justice — and the low 
lamentation of humble distress, are notes equally 

beyond his compass. Eternal God ! see ! — 

he passes by one whom thou hast just bruised, 
without one pensive reflection : — he enters the 
cabin of the widow whose husband and child thou 
hast taken to thyself,- — exacts his bond, without 
a sigh ! — Heaven ! if I am to be tempted — let it 
be by glory, — by ambition, — by some generous 
and manly vice : if I must fall, let it be by some 
passion which thou hast planted in my nature, 
which shall not harden my heart, but leave me 
room at last to retreat and come back to thee ! 

sermon xix. p. 81. 



HUMILITY. 

HE that is little in his own eyes, is little 
too in his desires, and consequently moderate in 
his pursuit of them : like another man, he may 
fail in his attempts, and lose the point he aimed 
at ; — but that is all,- — he loses not himself, — he 
loses not his happiness and peace of mind with it : 
— even the contentions of the humble man are 

mild and placid. Blessed characters ! when 

such a one is thrust back, who does not pity him ? 
when he falls, who would not stretch out a- hand 
to raise him up ? serm. xxv. p. 193- 

R2 



19$ 

PATIENCE AND CONTENTMENT, 

PATIENCE and Contentment,— which, 
like the treasure hid in the field, for which a man 
sold all he had to purchase — is of that price that 
it cannot be had at too great a purchase, since 
without it the best condition in life cannot make 
us happy, — and with it, it is impossible we should 
be miserable even in the worst. 

sermon xv. p. 16. 



HUMILITY CONTRASTED WITH PRIDE. 

WHEN we reflect upon the character of 
Humility, — we are apt to think it stands the most 
naked and defenceless of all virtues whatever, — 
the least able to support its claims against the in- 
solent antagonist who seems ready to bear him 
down, and all opposition which such a temper can 
make. 

Now, if we consider him as standing alone, — 
no doubt, in such a case, he will be overpowered 
and trampled upon by his opposer ; — but if we 
consider the meek and lowly man, as he is — 
fenced and guarded by the love, the friendship, 
and wishes of all mankind,— that the other stands 
alone, hated, discountenanced, without one true 
friend or hearty well-wisher on his side : — when 
this is balanced, we shall have reason to change 
our opinion, and be convinced that the humble 
man, strengthened with such an alliance^ is far 



199 

from being so over-matched as at first sight he 
may appear : — nay, I believe one might venture 
to go further, and engage for it, that in all such 
cases where real fortitude and true personal cour- 
age were wanted, he is much more likely to give 
proof of it, and I would sooner look for it in such 
a temper than in that of his adversary. Pride 
may make a man violent, — but Humility will 
make him firm : — and which of the two, do you 
think, likely to come off with honour ? — he who 
acts from the changeable impulse of heated blood, 
and follows the uncertain motions of his pride and 
fury ; — or the man who stands cool and collected 
in himself ; — who governs his resentments, instead 
of being governed by them, and on every occasion 
acts upon the steady motives of principle and duty ? 
sermon xxv. p. 193. 

With regard to the provocations and offences, 
which are unavoidably happening to a man in his 

commerce with the world, take it as a rule, 

as a man's pride is, — so is always his displeasure ; 
as the opinion of himself rises, — so does the in- 
jury, — so does his resentment : 'tis this which 
gives edge and force to the instrument which has 
struck him, — and excites that heat in the wound 
which renders it incurable. 

See how different the case is with the humble 
man : one half of these painful conflicts he actu- 
ally escapes ; the other part falls lightly on 
him : — he provokes no man by contempt ; thrusts 
himself forward as the mark of no man's envy ; 
so that he cuts off the first fretful occasions of the 



200 

greatest part of these evils ; and for those in 
which the passions of others would involve him, 
like the humble shrub in the valley, gently gives 
way, and scarce feels the injury of those stormy 
encounters which rend the proud cedar, and tear 
it up by its roots. sermon xxv. p. 190. 



PRIDE. 



THE proud man, — see ! — he is sore all 
over : touch him — you put him to pain ; and 
though, of all others, he acts as if every mortal 
was void of sense and feeling, yet is possessed with 
so nice and exquisite a one himself, that the slights 3 
the little neglects, and instances of disesteem, 
which would be scarce felt by another man, are 
perpetually wounding him, and ofttimes piercing 
him to the very heart, sermon xxiv. p. 174. 

Pride is a vice which grows up in society so 
insensibly, — steals in unobserved upon the heart 
upon so many occasions ;— forms itself upon such 
strange pretensions, and when it has done, veils 
itself under such a variety of unsuspected appear- 
ances, — sometimes even under that of Humility 
itself ; — rin all which cases, Self-love, like a false 
friend, instead of checking, most treacherously 
feeds this humour, — points out some excellence in 
every soul to make him vain, and think more high- 
ly of himself than he ought to think ; — that upon 
• the whole, there is no one weakness into which the 



201 

heart of man is more easily betrayed— or which 
requires greater helps of good sense and good 
principles to guard against. 

SERMON XXIV. P. 177. 

O God ! what is man ! — even a thing of nought 
—a poor, infirm, miserable, short-lived creature, 
that passes away like a shadow, and is hastening 
off the stage, where the theatrical titles and dis- 
tinctions, and the whole mask of pride which he 
has worn for a day, will fall off, and leave hi m 
naked as a neglected slave. — Send forth your im- 
agination, I beseech you, to view the last scene of 
the greatest and proudest who ever awed and gov- 
erned the world — See the empty vapour disap- 
pearing ! one of the arrows of mortality this mo- 
ment sticks fast within him : see — it forces out 
his life, and freezes his blood and spirits. 

Approach his bed of state — lift up the curtain 
— regard a moment with silence 

Are these cold hands and pale lips, all that are 
left of him who was canoniz'd by his own pride, 
or made a god of by his flatterers ? 

O my soul ! with what dreams hast thou been 
bewitched ? how hast thou been deluded by the 
objects thou hast so eagerly grasped at ? 

If this reflection from the natural imperfections 
of man, which he cannot remedy, does neverthe- 
less strike a damp upon human pride, much more 
must the considerations do so, which arise from 
the wilful depravations of his nature. 

Survey yourselves a few moments in this light 
— behold a disobedient, ungrateful, untractable, 



202 

and disorderly set of creatures, going wrong seven 
times a day, — acting sometimes every hour of it 
against your own convictions, your own interests, 
and the intentions of your God> who wills and pur- 
poses nothing but your happiness and prosperity— 
What reason does this view furnish you for pride i 
how many does it suggest to mortify and make 
you ashamed ? — Well might the son of Syrach say, 
in that sarcastical remark of his upon it, Thai pride 

iv as not made for man for some purpose, and 

for some particular beings, the passion might have 

been shaped — but not for him fancy it where 

you will, 'tis no where so improper — 'tis in no 
creature so unbecoming. 

But why so cold an assent to so incontested a 

truth ? Perhaps thou hast reasons to be proud ; 

— — for Heaven's sake let us hear them — Thou 
hast the advantages of birth and title to boast of — 
or thou standest in the sunshine of court -favour— 
or thou hast a large fortune — or great talents— 
or much learning — or nature has bestowed her gra- 
ces upon thy person — speak — on which of these 
foundations hast thou raised this fanciful structure \ 
Let us examine them. 

Thou art well born :- — then trust me, 'twill pol- 
lute no one drop of thy blood to be humble : hu- 
mility calls no man down from his rank, — divests 
not princes of their titles ; it is like what the clear 
obscure is in painting ; it makes the hero step forth 
in the canvas, and detaches his figure from the 
group in which he would otherwise stand con- 
founded for ever. 

If thou art rich — then shew the greatness of thy 



203 

fortune — or, what is better, the greatness of thy 
soul, in the meekness of thy conversation ; conde- 
scend to men of low estate — support the distress- 
ed, and patronize the neglected. Be great ; 

but let it be in considering riches as they are, as 
talents committed to an earthen vessel — That thou 
art but the receiver, — and that to be obliged and 
to be vain too, — is but the old solecism of pride 
and beggary, which, though they often meet, — 
yet ever make but an absurd society. 

If thou art powerful in interest, and standest 
deified by a servile tribe of dependants, — why 
shouldst thou be proud, — because they are hungry ? 
>. — Scourge me such sycophants ; they have turned 
the heads of thousands as well as thine 

But 'tis thy own dexterity and strength which 
have gained thee this eminence : — allow it ; but 
art thou proud, that thou standest in a place where 
thou art the mark of one man's envy, another man's 
malice, or a third man's revenge, — where good 
men may be ready to suspect thee, and whence 
bad men will be ready to pull thee down ? I would 
be proud of nothing that is uncertain : Haman 
was so, because he was admitted alone to queen 
Esther's banquet ; and the distinction raised him,— 
but it was fifty cubits higher than he ever dream- 
ed or thought of. 

Let us pass on to the pretences of learning, Sec. 
&c. If thou hast a little, thou wilt be proud of 
it in course ; if thou hast much, and good sense 
along with it, there will be no reason to dispute 
against the passion : a beggarly parade of remnants 
is but a sorry object of pride at the best ;— but 



204, 

more so, when we can cry out upon it, as the poor 

man did of his hatchet, -Alas ! master , for it 

was borrowed*. 

It is treason to say the same of Beauty, — what- 
ever we do of the arts and ornaments with which 
Pride is wont to set it off ; the weakest minds are 
most caught with both ; being ever glad to win 
attention and credit from small and slender acci- 
dents, through disability of purchasing them by 
better means. sermon xxiv. p. 182. 



MR. SHANDY'S BED OF JUSTICE. 

THE ancient Goths of Germany, who (the 
learned Cluverius is positive) were first seated in 
the country between the Vistula and the Oder, and 
who afterwards incorporated the Her exile, the Bu- 
gians, and some other Vandallic clans to 'em, — had 
all of them a wise custom of debating every thing 
of importance to their state, twice ; that is, — once 

drunk and once sober : — Drunk — that their 

councils might not want vigour : and sober- 
that they might not want discretion. 

Now my father being entirely a water-drinker, 

* was a long time gravelled almost to death, in 

turning this as much to his advantage, as he did 
every other thing, which the ancients did or said ; 
and it was not till the seventh year of his marriage, 
after a thousand fruitless experiments and devices, 

" II Kings, vi. 5. 



205 

that he hit upon an expedient which answered the 
purpose ; and that was, when any difficult and 
momentous point was to be settled in the family, 
which required great sobriety, and great spirit too, 

in its determination, he fixed and set apart the 

first Sunday night in the month, and the Saturday 
night which immediately preceded it, to argue it 
over, in bed, with my mother : by which contriv- 
ance, if you consider, Sir, with yourself, * * 



These, my father, humorously enough, called 
his beds of justice ; — for from the two different coun- 
sels taken in these two different humours, a middle 
one was generally found out, which touched the 
point of wisdom as well, as if he had got drunk 
and sober a hundred times. 

It must not be made a secret of to the world* 
that this answers full as well in literary discussions, 
as either in military or conjugal : but it is not ev- 
ery author that can try the experiment as the Goths 
and Vandals did it — or, if he can, may it be always 
for his body's health ; and to do it, as my father 
did it, — I am sure it would be always for his soul's. 

My way is this : — 

In all nice and ticklish discussions, — (of which* 
Heaven knows, there are but too many in my 

book, ) where I find I cannot take a step with- 

out the danger of having either their worships or 
their reverences upon my back — I write one half 

fulU and t'other fasting ; - ■ or write it alt 

S 



206 

full, — and correct it fasting I or write it fast- 
ing, — and correct it full, for they ail come to the 

same thing : So that with a less variation 

from my father's plan, than my father's from the 
Gothic — I feel myself upon a par with him in his 
first bed of justice, — and no way inferior to him 

in his second. These different and almost irre- 

concileable effects, flow uniformly from the wise 
and wonderful mechanism of nature, — of which, — 
be her's the honour. — All that we can do, is to 
turn and work the machine to the improvement 
and better manufactory of the arts and scien- 
ces. 

Now, when I write full, — I write as if I was 
never to write fasting again as long as I live ; — 
that is, I write free from the cares as well as the 
terrors of the world. — I count not the number of 
my scars, — nor does my fancy go forth into dark 

entries and bye corners to antedate my stabs. 

In a word, my pen takes its course ; and I write 
on as much from the fulness of my heart, as my 
stomach- 

But when, an* please your honours, I indite 
fasting, 'tis a different history.— I pay the world 
all possible attention and respect, — —and have as 
great a share (whilst it lasts) of that under strap- 
ping virtue of discretion, as the best of you. — So 
that betwixt both, I write a careless kind of a 
civil, nonsensical, good-humoured, Shandeanhook^ 
which will do all your hearts good 

-And all your heads too, — provided you 

understand it. 



- 207 

We should begin, said my father, turning him- 
self half round in bed, and shifting his pillow a 
little towards my mother's, as he opened to de- 
bate. - We should begin to think, Mrs. Shandy, 
of putting this boy into breeches. 

We should so,— said my mother. We defer 

it, my dear, quoth my father, shamefully. 

I think we do, Mr. Shandy, said my mother. 

Not but the child looks extremely well, 

said my father, in his vests and tunics. 

— - He does look very well in them, — replied 
my mother. - — 

And for that reason it would be almost a 

sin, added my father, to take him out of 'em. 

It would so, — said my mother.-— But in- 
deed he is growing a very tall lad, — rejoined my 
father. 

He is very tall for his age, indeed, — said 

my mother. 

1 can not (making two syllables of it) 

imagine, quoth my father, who the deuce he takes 
after. — 

I cannot conceive, for my life, — said my moth- 
er. — 

Humph ! — ^said my father. 

(The dialogue ceased for a moment.) 

1 am very short myself, — continued my 

father, gravely. 

You are very short, Mr. Shandy, — said my 
mother. 

Humph ! quoth my father to himself, a second 
time ; in muttering which, he plucked his pillow 
a little further from my mother's, — and turning 



208 

about again, there was an end of the debate for 
three minutes and a half. 

When he gets these breeches made, cried 

my father in a higher tone, he'll look like a beast 
in 'em. 

He will be very aukward in them at first, repli- 
ed my mother. 

And t'will be lucky, if that's the worst 

on't, added my father. 

It will be very lucky, answered my mother. 

I suppose, replied my father, — making some 
pause first, — he'll be exactly like other people's 
children. 

Exactly, said my mother. 

Though I should be sorry for that, added 

my father ; and so the debate stopped again. 

They should be of leather, said my fa- 
ther, turning him about again. 

They will last him, said my mother, the longest. 

But he can have no linings to 'em, replied my 
father. 

He cannot, said my mother. 

'Twere better to have them of fustian, quoth 
my father. 

Nothing can be better, quoth my mother. 

Except dimity, replied my father : — 'Tis best 
of all, — replied my mother. 

One must not give him his death, however, 

-—interrupted my father. 

By no means, said my mother : and so 

the dialogue stood still again. 

I am resolved, however, quoth my father, break- 
ing silence a fourth time, he shall have no pockets 
in them. — ■ ■ ■■ ■ ' ' ■ 



209 
-There is no occasion for any, said my 



mother.- 

I mean in his coat and waistcoat, — cried my fa- 
ther. 

1 mean so too, — replied my mother. 

Though if he gets a gig or top Poor 

souls ! it is a crown and a sceptre to them, — they 
should have where to secure it. 

Order it as you please, Mr. Shandy, replied my 
mother. 



But don't you think it right i added my 

father, pressing the point home to her. 

Perfectly, said my mother, if it pleases you, Mr, 
Shandy.* 



-There's for you ! cried my father, los^ 

ing temper. Pleases me ! You never 

will distinguish, Mrs. Shandy ; nor shall I ever 
teach you to do it, betwixt a point of pleasure and 

a point of convenience. This was on the 

Sunday night ; — and further this chapter sayeth 

not. T. SHANDY, VOL. III. C. 60, 



BEAUTY. 



BEAUTY has so many charms, one 
knows not how to speak against it ; and when it 
happens that a graceful figure is the habitation of 
a virtuous soul, when the beauty of the face speaks 
out the modesty and humility of the mind, and 
the justness of the proportion raises our thoughts 
up to the heart and wisdom of the great Creator, 
S2 



210 

something may be allowed it, — and something t© 
the embellishments which set it off ; — and yet, 
when the whole apology is read, — it will be found 
at last, that Beauty, like Truth, never is so glori- 
ous as when it goes the plainest. 

sermon xxiv, p. 187« 



WISDOM, 

LESSONS of Wisdom have never such 
power over us, as when they are wrought into the 
heart through the ground-work of a story which 
engages the passions : is it that we are like 
iron, and must first be heated before we can be 
wrought upon ? or, is the heart so in love with 
deceit, that where a true report will not reach it, 
we must cheat it with a fable, in order to come at 
the truth ? sermon xx. p. 93. 



HUNGER. 



OF all the terrors of nature, that of one 
day or other dying by hunger, is the greatest ; 
and it is wisely wove into our frame to awaken 
man to industry, and call forth his talents ; and 
though we seem to go on carelessly, sporting with 
it as we do with other terrors, — -yet, he that sees 
this enemy fairly, and in his most frightful shape, 
will need no long remonstrance to make him turn 
out of the way to avoid him. 

sermon xx. p. 98» 



211 

DISTRESS. 

NOTHING so powerfully calls home the 

mind as distress : the tense fibre then relaxes, ■ 

the soul retires to itself, — sits pensive and sus- 
ceptible of right impressions : If we have a friend, 
'tis then we think of him ; if a benefactor, at that 
moment all his kindnesses press upon our mind. 

SERM. XX. P. 97. 



MR. SHANDY^S LETTER TO HIS BRO- 
THER ON LOVE. 

MY DEAR BROTHER TOBY, 

WHAT I am going to say to thee, is 
upon the nature of women, and of love-making to 
them ; and perhaps it is as well for thee — though 
not so well for me — that thou hast occasion for a 
letter of instructions upon that head, and that I 
am able to write it to thee. 

Had it been the good pleasure of him who dis- 
poses of our lots — and thou no sufferer by the 
knowledge, I had been well content that thou 
shouldst have dipp'd the pen this moment into the 
ink, instead of myself ; but that not being the case 
Mrs. Shandy being now close beside me, pre- 
paring for bed— I have thrown together without 
order, and just as they have come into my mind, 
such hints and documents as I deem may be of use 
to thee ; intending in this to give thee a token of 
my love ; not doubting, my dear Toby, of thr 
manner in which it will be accepted. 



212 

In the first place, with regard to all which con- 
cerns religion in the affair — though I perceive, 
from a glow in my cheek, that I blush as I begin 
to speak to thee upon the subject, as well know- 
ing, notwithstanding thy unaffected secrecy, how 
few of its offices thou neglectest — yet I would re- 
mind thee of one (during the continuance of thy 
courtship) in a particular manner, which I would 
not have omitted : and that is, never to go forth 
upon the enterprize, whether it be in the morning 
or the afternoon, without first recommending thy- 
self to the protection of Almighty God, that he 
may defend thee from the evil one. 

Shave the whole top of thy crown clean once 
at least every four or five days, but oftener if con- 
venient ; lest in taking off thy wig before her, 
through absence of mind, she should be able to 
discover how much has been cut away by Time- 
how much by Trim. 

— 'Twere better to keep ideas of baldness out 
of her fancy. 

Always carry it in thy mind, and act upon it, 
as a sure maxim, Toby — 

" That women are timid :" And 'tis well they 
are — else there would be no dealing with them. 

Let not thy breeches be too tight, or hang too 
"loose about thy thighs, like the trunk hose of our 
ancestors. 

—A just medium prevents all conclusions. 

Whatever thou hast to say, be it more or less, 
forget not to utter it in a low, soft tone of voice. 
Silence, and whatever approaches it, weaves dreams 
of midnight secrecy into the brain. For this 



21& 

cause, if thou canst help it, never throw down the 
tongs and poker. 

Avoid all kinds of pleasantry and facetiousness 
in thy discourse with her, and do whatever lies in 
thy power at the same time, to keep from her all 
books and writings which tend thereto : there are 
some devotional tracts, which if thou canst entice 
her to read over — it will be well ; but suffer her 
not to look at Rabelais , or Scarron, or Don Quixote* 

— They are all books which excite laughter ; 
and thou knowest, dear Toby, that there is no pas- 
sion so serious as lust. 

Stick a pin in the bosom of thy shirt before 
thou enterest her parlour. 

And if thou art permitted to sit upon the same 
sopha with her, and she gives thee occasion to lay 
thy hand upon her's— beware of taking it — thou 
canst not lay thy hand on her's, but she will feel 
the temper of thine. Leave that and as many 
other things as thou canst, quite undetermined ; 
by so doing, thou wilt have her curiosity on thy 
side ; and if she is not conquered by that, and thy 
Asse continues still kicking, which there is great 
reason to suppose — Thou must begin, with first 
losing a few ounces of blood below the ears, ac- 
cording to the practice of the ancient Scythians* 
who cured the most intemperate fits of the appe- 
tite by that means. 

dvicenna, after this, is for having the part an- 
nointed with the syrup of hellebore, using proper 

evacuations and purges and, I believe, rightly. 

But thou must eat little or no goat's flesh, nor 
red deer nor even foal's flesh by any mean s t 



214 

and carefully abstain ■ that is, as much as thou 
canst, from peacocks, cranes, coots, didappers, 
and water-hens. 

As for thy drink, — I need not tell thee, it must 
be the infusion Vervain, and the herb Hanea, 
of which Mtian relates such effects — but if thy 
stomach palls with it — discontinue it from time to 
time, taking cucumbers, melons, purslane, water- 
lilies, woodbine, and lettuce, in the stead of them. 

There is nothing further for thee, which occurs 
to me at present. 

— Unless the breaking out of a fresh war — — • 
So wishing every thing, dear Toby, for the best, 

I rest thy affectionate brother, 

Walter Shandy. 



IMPOSTURE. 

WHAT a problematic set of creatures 
does simulation make us ! who would divine that — 
that anxiety and concern, so visible in the airs of 
one half of that great assembly, should arise from 
nothing else, but that the other half of it may 
think them to be men of consequence, penetration, 
parts, and conduct ? — What a noise amongst the 
claimants about it ! Behold Humility , out of mere 
pride ;— and Honesty, almost out of knavery : — 
Chastity never once in harm's way : and Courage, 
like a Spanish soldier upon an Italian stage—a 
bladder full of wind. 



215 

Hark ! that, the sound of that trumpet,-— let 

not my soldier run, it is some good Christian 

giving alms. O, Pity ! thou gentlest of human 
passions ! soft and tender are thy notes, and ill 
accord they with so loud an instrument. 

Thus something jars, and will for ever jar in 
these cases. 

Imposture is all dissonance, let what master so- 
ever of it undertake the part : let him harmonise 
and modulate it as he may, one tone will contra- 
dict another ; and whilst we have ears to hear, we 
shall distinguish it : 'tis truth only which is 
consistent, and ever in harmony with itself : it sits 
upon our lips, like the natural notes of some melo- 
dies, ready to drop out, whether we will or no ; — 
it racks no invention to let ourselves alone, and 
needs fear no critic, to have the same excellency 
in the heart, which appears in the action. 

SERMON XVII. p. 48. 



CONTENTMENT. 

THERE is scarce any lot so low, but 
there is something in it to satisfy the man whom 
it has befallen ; Providence having so ordered 
things, that in every man's cup, how bitter soever, 
there are some cordial drops — some good circum- 
stances, which, if wisely extracted, are sufficient 
for the purpose he wants them — that is, to make 
him contented, and if not happy, at least resigned, 

sermon xv. p. 19. 



216 

EVILS. 

UNWILLINGLY does the mind digest 
the evils prepared for it by others ; — for those we 
prepare ourselves, — we eat but the fruit which we 
have planted and watered : — a shattered fortune, 
— a shattered frame, so we have but the satisfac- 
tion of shattering them ourselves, pass naturally 
enough into the habit, and by the ease with which 
they are both done, they save the spectator a 
world of pity : but for those, like Jacob's, brought 
upon him by the hands from which he looked for 
all his comforts, — the avarice of a parent, — the 
unkindness of a relation, — the ingratitude of a 
child, they are evils which leave a scar ; besides, 
as they hang over the heads of all, and therefore 
may fall upon any ! — every looker-on has an in- 
terest in the tragedy ; — but then we are apt to in- 
terest ourselves no otherwise, than merely as the 
incidents themselves strike our passions, without 
carrying the lesson further : — in a word — we real- 
ize nothing : — we sigh — we wipe away the tear, 
— and there ends the story of misery, and the 
moral with it. sermon xxii. p. 134. 



THE DANCE. 

IT was in the road betwixt Nismes and 
Lunel, where there is the best Muscatto wine in 
all France, and which, by the bye, belongs to the 
honest canons of Mqntpellier, — and foul befal 



217 

the man who has drank it at their table, who 
grudges them a drop of it. 

The sun was set — they had done their 

work, the nymphs had tied up their hair afresh — 

and the swains were preparing for a carousal 

my mule made a dead point 'Tis the fife and 

tabourin, said I — I'm frightened to death, quoth 

he They are running at the ring of pleasure, 

said I, giving him a prick by saint Boogar, 

and all the saints at the backside of the door of 
purgatory, said he — (making the same resolution 
with the abbesse of Andouillets) I'll not go a step 

further 'Tis very well, Sir, said I — I 

never will argue a point with one of your family, 
as long as I live ; so leaping off his back, and kick- 
ing off one boot into this ditch, and t'other into 
that — I'll take a dance, said I — so stay you here. 

A sun-burnt daughter of labour rose up from 
the group to meet me, as I advanced towards 
them ; her hair, which was a dark chestnut, ap- 
proaching rather to a black, was tied up in a knot, 
all but a single tress. 

We want a cavalier, said she, holding out both 
her hands, as if to offer them — And a cavalier ye 
shall have, said I, taking hold of both of them. 

Hadst thou, Ncmnette, been array'd like a 
duchesse ! — But that cursed slit in thy petticoat ! 

Nannette cared not for it. 

We could not have done without you, said she, 
letting go one hand, with self-taught politeness^ 
leading me up with the other. 

A lame youth, whom Apollo had recompensed 
with a pipe, and to which he had added a tabourin 
T 



218 

of his own accord, ran sweetly over the prelude, 
as he sat upon the bank — Tie me up this tress 
instantly, said Nannette, putting a piece of string 
into my hand — It taught me to forget I was a 
stranger — The whole knot fell down— We had 
been seven years acquainted. 

The youth struck the note upon the tabourin — » 
his pipe followed, and off we bounded — "the 
deuce take that slit I" 

The sister of the youth, who had stolen her 
voice from heaven, sung alternately with her 

brother 'twas a Gascoigne roundelay. 

VIVA la joia ! 

FIDON LA TRISTESSA ! 

The nymphs joined in unison, and their swains an 
octave below them — 

I would have given a crown to have it sew'd 
up — Nannette would not have given a sous — Viva 
la joia ! was in her lips — Viva la joia I was in 
her eyes. A transient spark of amity shot across 
the space betwixt us — She look'd amiable ! — 
Why could I not live, and end my days thus ! 
Just Disposer of our joys and sorrows, cried I, 
why could not a man sit down in the lap of con- 
tent here — and dance, and sing, and say his pray- 
ers, and go to heaven with this nut-brown maid ? 
Capriciously did she bend her head on one side, 

and dance up insidious —Then 'tis time to dance 

off, quoth I ! so changing only partners and tunes, 
I danced it away from Lunel to Montpellier — from 

thence to Pescnas, Be%iers —I danced it along 

through Narbonne, Carcasson, and Castle Nau- 
dairy 9 till at last I danced myself into Perdrillo's 
pavilion. t. shandy-, vol. iv. chap. 24, 



219 

OPPRESSION. 

SOLOMON says, Oppression will make 
a wise man mad. — What will it do then to a ten- 
der and ingenuous heart, which feels itself neg- 
lected,- — too full of reverence for the author of its 
wrongs to complain ? — See, it sits down in silence, 
robbed by discouragements, of all its natural 
powers to please, — born to see others loaded with 
caresses — in some uncheery corner it nourishes its 
discontent, and with a weight upon its spirits, 
which its little stock of fortitude is not able to 

withstand, — it droops and pines away. Sad 

victim of caprice ! sermon xxii. p. 136. 



VIRTUE AND VICE. 

WHOEVER considers the state and 
condition of human nature, and upon this view, 
how much stronger the natural motives are to 
virtue than to vice, would expect to find the world 
much better than it is, or ever has been ; — for 
who would suppose the generality of mankind to 
betray so much folly, as to act against the com- 
mon interest of their own kind, as every man does 
who yields to the temptation of what is wrong ? 
SERMON XXXIII. p. 61. 



220 

WISDOM. 

THERE is no project to which the whole 
race of mankind is so universally a bubble, as to 
that of being thought wise : and the affectation of 
it is so visible, in men of all complexions, that you 
every day see some one or other so very solicitous 
to establish the character, as not to allow himself 
leisure to do the things which fairly win it : — 
expending more art and stratagem to appear so in 
the eyes of the world, than what would suffice to 
make him so in truth. 

It is owing to the force of this desire, that you 
see in general there is no injury touches a man so 
sensibly, as an insult upon his parts and capacity : 
tell a man of other defects, that he wants learn- 
ing, industry or application, — he will hear your 
reproof with patience.- — —Nay, you may go far- 
ther ; take him in a proper season, you may tax 
his morals, you may tell him he is irregular in his 

conduct, passionate or revengeful in his nature, 

— loose in his principles ; — deliver it with the gen- 
tleness of a friend, — possibly he'll not only bear 
with you, — but, if ingenuous, he will thank you 

for your lecture, and promise a reformation : 

but hint, — hint but a defect in his intellectuals, — 
touch but that sore place, — from that moment you 
are look'd upon as an enemy sent to torment him 
before his time, and in return may reckon upon his 
resentment and ill-will for ever : so that in general 
you will find it safer to tell a man he is a 

knave than a fool, and stand a better chance 

of being forgiven, for proving he has been wanting 



221 

in a point of common honesty, than a point of 

common sense. Strange souls that we are ! as 

if to live well was not the greatest argument of 

wisdom ; and, as if what reflected upon our 

morals, did not most of all reflect upon our un- 
derstandings ! serm.xxvi.p. 207- 



CORPORAL TRIM'S REFLECTIONS ON 
DEATH. 

MY young master in London is dead ! 
said Obadiah. A green satin night-gown of my 
mother's, which had been twice scoured, was the 
first idea which Obadiah* s exclamation , brought 
into Susannah's head. Then, quoth Susannah, we 
must all go into mourning — Oh ! 'twill be the 

death of my poor mistress, cried Susannah. 

My mother's whole wardrobe followed What 

a procession ! her red damask, — her orange tawny, 
—her white and yellow lustrings, — her brown taf- 
fety, — her bone-laced caps, her bed-gowns, — and 
comfortable under-petticoats. — Not a rag was left 
behind. — No, — she will never look up again, said 
Susannah, 

We had a fat foolish scullion — my father, I 
think, kept her for her simplicity ; — she had been 

all autumn struggling with a dropsy. He is 

dead ! — said Obadiah, he is certainly dead ! — So 
am not I, said the foolish scullion. 

— Here is sad news, Trim ! cried Susannah, 
wiping her eyes, as Trim stepp'd into the kitchen* 
T2 



222 

, Master Bobby is dead and buried, — the fune- 
ral was an interpolation of Susannah's — we shall 
have all to go into mourning, said Susannah. 

I hope not, said Trim I — You hope not ! cried 
Susannah earnestly. — -—The mourning ran not into 
Trim's head, whatever it did in Susannah's.— I hope 
— said Trim, explaining himself, I hope in God 
the news is not true. I heard the letter read with 
my own ears, answered Obadtah. Oh ! he's dead* 

said Susannah As sure, said the scullion, as I 

am alive. 

I lament for him from my heart and my soul, 
said Trim, fetching a sigh — Poor creature ! — poor 
boy ! — poor gentleman ! 

-■ — He was alive last Whitsuntide, said the coach- 
man. — Whitsuntide J alas \ % cried Trim, extending 
his right arm, and falling instantly into the same 
attitude in which he read the sermon, — what is 
Whitsuntide, Jonathan, (for that was the coach- 
man's name,) or Shrovetide, or any tide, or time 
past to this ? Are we not here now, continued the 
Corporal, (striking the end of his stick perpen- 
dicularly upon the floor, so as to give an idea of 
health and stability) — -and are we not- (drop- 
ping his hat upon the ground) gone ! in a mo- 
ment ! — - — 'Twas infinitely striking ! Susannah 
burst into a flood of tears. — We are not stocks 
and stones, — Jonathan, Obadtah, the cook-maid, 

all melted.-- The foolish fat scullion herself, 

who was scouring a fish-kettle upon her knees, 
was rouzed with it. — The whole kitchen crowded 
about the Corporah 



223 

— To us, Jonathan, who know not what want 
or care is, — who live here in the service of two of 
the best of masters — (bating in my own case his 
Majesty King William the Third, whom I had the 
honour to serve both in Ireland and Flanders) — 
I own it, that from Whitsuntide to within three 
weeks of Christmas, — 'tis not long — 'tis like 

nothing ; but to those, Jonathan, who know 

what death is, and what havoc and destruction he 
can make, before a man can wheel about, — 'tis 
like a whole age. — O Jonathan I 'twould make a 
good-natured man's heart bleed, to consider (con- 
tinued the Corporal, standing perpendicularly,) 
how low many a brave and upright fellow has been 
laid since that time !— And trust me, Susy, added 
the Corporal, turning to Susannah, w T hose eyes 
were swimming in water — before that time comes 
round again, — many a bright eye will be dim. — 
Susannah placed it to the right side of the page — 
she wept — but she curt'sied too. — Are we not, 
continued Trim, looking still at Susannah,— are we 
not like a flower of the field — a tear of pride stole 
in betwixt every two tears of humiliation— else no 
tongue could have described Susannah's affliction 
— is not all flesh grass ? 'Tis clay, — 'tis dirt.— 
They all looked directly at the scullion, — the 

scullion had just been scouring a fish-kettle 

It was not fair.— 

— What is the finest face that ever man looked 
at ! — I could hear Trim talk so forever, cried 
Susannah — what is it ! (Susannah laid her hand 
upon Trim's shoulder) — but corruption ? Susan- 
nah took it off. 



224 

— Now I love you for this — and 'tis the deli- 
cious mixture within you, which makes you, dear 
creatures, what you are — And he who hates you 
for it — all I can say of the matter is — that he has 
either a pumpkin for his head — or a pippin for 
his heart, and whenever he is dissected, it will be 
found so. 

For my own part, I declare it, that out of 
doors, I value not death at all : — not this . . . 
added the Corporal, snapping his fingers,— but 
with an air which no one but the Corporal could 

have given to the sentiment. In battle, I value 

death not this . . . and let him not take me cow- 
ardly, like poor Joe Gibbins, in scouring his gun. 

What is he ? A pull of a trigger- a push 

of a bayonet an inch this way or that — makes the 
difference. Look along the line — to the right — 
see ! Jack's down ! well, — 'tis worth a regiment 
of horse to him. — No — 'tis Dick. Then Jack's 
no worse. Never mind which, — we pass on, — in 
hot pursuit the wound itself which brings him is 
not felt, — the best way is to stand up to him, the 
man who flies, is in ten times more danger than 
the man who marches up into his jaws. — I've 
look'd him, added the Corporal, an hundred times 
in the face, — and know what he is. — He's nothing, 
Obadiah, at all in the field. — But he's very fright- 
ful in a house, quoth Obadiah. 1 never mind it 

myself, said Jonathan, upon a coach-box. 

I pity my mistress. — She will never get the 

better of it, cried Susannah. Now I pity the 

Captain the most of any one in the family, an- 
swered Trim.- — —Madam will get ease of heart in 



225 

weeping, and the 'Squire in talking about it, — - 
but my poor master will keep it all in silence to 
himself. — I shall hear him sigh in his bed for a 
whole month together, as he did for Lieutenant 
Le Fevre* An' please your honour, do not sigh 
so piteously, I would say to him as I laid beside 
him. I cannot help it, Trim, my master would 
say, — 'tis so melancholy an accident — I cannot 
get it off my heart. — Your honour fears not death 
yourself. — I hope, Trim, I fear nothing, he would 
say, but the doing a wrong thing. — Well, he 
would add, whatever betides, I will take care of 
Le Fevre's boy. — And with that, like a quieting 
draught, his honour would fall asleep. 

I like to hear Trim's stories about the Captain, 
said Susannah. He is a kindly -hearted gentle- 
man, said Obadiah, as ever lived. Aye, — and 

as brave a one too, said the Corporal, as ever stept 
before a platoon. There never was a better offi- 
cer in the king's army, or a better man in God's 
world ; for he would march up to the mouth of 
a cannon, though he saw the lighted match at the 
very touch-hole, — and yet, for all that, he has a 
heart as soft as a child for other people. — He 
would not hurt a chicken — I would sooner, quoth 
Jonathan, drive such a gentleman for seven pounds 
a year — than some for eight.— Thank thee, Jona- 
than ! for thy twenty shillings, — as much, Jona- 
than, said the Corporal, shaking him by the hand, 
as if thou hadst put the money into my own pocket. 
— I would serve him to the day of my death out of 
love. He is a friend and a brother to me, — and 
could I be sure my poor brother Tom was dead*--* 



226 

continued the Corporal, taking out his handker- 
chief, — were I worth ten thousand pounds, I 
would leave every shilling of it. to the Captain. — 
Trim could not refrain from tears at this testamen- 
tary proof he gave of his affection to his master. 
The whole kitchen was affected. 

T. SHANDY, VOL. 111. C. 7- 



MR. SHANDY'S RESIGNATION FOR THE 

loss of His son. 

PHILOSOPHY has a fine saying for 
every thing — For Death it has an entire set. 

u Tis an inevitable chance — the first statute of 
Magna Charta it is an everlasting act of par- 
liament — All must die. 

" Monarchs and princes dance in the same ring 
with us. 

" To die, is the great debt and tribute due unto 
nature : tombs and monuments, which should per- 
petuate our memories, pay it themselves ; and the 
proudest pyramid of them all, which wealth and 
science have erected, has lost its apex, and stands 
obtruncated in the traveller's horizon—Kingdoms 
and provinces, and towns and cities, have they not 
their periods ? and when those principles and 
powers, which at first cemented and put them to- 
gether, have performed their several revolutions, 
they fall back. 

N ** Where is Troy, and Mycena, and Thebes, and 
Delos, and Persepolis, and Agrigentum ? — What is 
become of Nineveh and Babylon, of Cyzicum, and 



227 

Mitylene P The fairest towns that ever the sun 
rose upon are now no more : the names only are 
left, and those [for many of them are wrong spelt] 
are falling themselves by piece-meal to decay, and 
in length of time will be forgotten, and involved 
with eveiy thing in a perpetual night : the world 
itself must — must come to an end. 

" Returning out of .Asia, when I sailed from 
JEgina towards Megara, I began to view the coun- 
try round about. JEgina was behind me, Megara 
was before, Pyraus on the right hand, Corinth on the 
left. — What flourishing towns now prostrate upon 
the earth ! Alas ! alas ! said I to myself, that 
man should disturb his soul for the loss of a child, 
when so much as this lies awfully buried in his 
presence. — Remember, said I to myself again — 
remember thou art a man. — 

" My son is dead ! — so much the better ;— 'tis 
a shame in such a tempest to have but one anchor. 

" But he is gone for ever from us ! — be it so. 
He is got from under the hands of his barber be- 
fore he was bald — he is but risen from a feast be- 
fore he was surfeited — from a banquet before he 
had got drunken. 

" The Thracians wept when a child was born — 
and feasted and made merry when a man went out 
of the world ; and with reason. Death opens the 
gate of fame, and shuts the gate of envy after it— 
it unlooses the chain of the captive, and puts the 
bondsman's task into another man's hands.r 

" Shew me the man who knows what life is, 
who dreads it, and I'll shew thee a prisoner wh@ 
dreads his liberty." 



228 
CONTENTMENT. 

THERE are thousands so extravagant in 
their ideas of contentment, as to imagine that it 
must consist in having every thing in this world 
turn out the way they wish — that they are to sit 
down in happiness, and feel themselves so at ease 
at all points, as to desire nothing better and noth- 
ing more. I own there are instances of some, who 
seem to pass through the world as if all their paths 

had been strewed with rose-buds of delight ; 

but a little experience will convince us, His a fatal 
expectation to go upon. — We are born to trouble ; 
and we may depend upon it whilst we live in this 
world we shall have it, though with intermissions 
—that is, in whatever state we are, we shall find 
a mixture of good and evil ; and therefore the true 
way to contentment is to know how to receive 
these certain vicissitudes of life, — the returns of 
good and evil, so as neither to be exalted by the 
one, or overthrown by the other, but to bear our- 
selves towards every thing which happens with 
such ease and indifference of mind, as to hazard as 
little as may be. This is the true temperate cli- 
mate litted for us by nature, and in which every 
wise man would wish to live. serm. xv. p. 17» 



THE TRANSLATION. 

PARIS. 

THERE was nobody in the box I was 
let into but a kindlv <}ld French officer. I love 



229 

the character, not only because I honour the man 
whose manners are softened by a profession which 
makes bad men worse ; but that I once knew one 
— for he is no more — and why should I not rescue 
one page from violation by writing his name in it, 
and telling the world it was Captain Tobias Shan- 
dy, the dearest of my flock and friends, whose 
philanthropy I never think of at this long distance 
from his death — but my eyes gush out with tears. 
For his sake, I have a predilection for the whole 
corps of veterans ; and so I strode over the two 
back rows of benches, and placed my self beside him. 

The officer was reading attentively a small pam- 
phlet, it might be the book of the opera, with a 
large pair of spectacles. As soon as I sat down, 
he took his spectacles off, and putting them into 
a shagreen case, returned them and the book into 
his pocket together. I half rose up, and made 
him a bow. 

Translate this into any civilized language in the 
world — the sense is this : 

" Here's a poor stranger come into the box — he 
seems as if he knew nobody ; and is never likely, 
were he to be seven years in Paris, if every man 
he comes near keeps his spectacles upon his nose — 
'tis shutting the door of conversation absolutely 
in his face — and using him worse than a German." 

The French officer might as well have said it all 
aloud ; and if he had, I should in course have put 
the bow I made him into French too, and told him, 
" I was sensible of his attention, and return'd him 
a thousand thanks for it." 
U 



230 

There is not a secret so aiding to the progress 
of sociality, as to get master of this short hand, and 
be quick in rendering the several turns of looks 
and limbs, with all their inflections and delineations, 
into plain words. For my own part, by long hab- 
itude, I do it so mechanically, that when I walk 
the streets of London, 1 go translating all the 
way ; and have more than once stood behind in 
the circle, where not three words have been said, 
and have brought off twenty different dialogues 
with me, which I could fairly have wrote down 
and sworn to. 

I was going one evening to Martini's concert at 
Milan, and was just entering the door of the hall, 
when the Marquisina di E*** was coming out in 
a sort of a hurry — she was almost upon me before 
I saw her ; so I gave a spring to one side to let 
her pass — She had done the same, and on the same 
side too : so we ran our heads together : she in- 
instantly got to the other side to get out ; I was 
just as unfortunate as she had been ; for I had 
sprung to that side and opposed her passage again 
— We both flew together to the other side, and 
then back — and so on — it was ridiculous ; we both 
blush'd intolerably ; so I did at last the thing I 

should have done at first 1 stood stock still, 

and the Marquisina had no more difficulty. I had 
no power to go into the room, till I had made 
her so much reparation as to wait and follow her 
with my eye to the end of the passage — She look'd 
back twice, and walk'd along it rather sideways, 
as if she would make room for any one coming up 
stairs to pass her — No, said I — that's a vile trans- 



231 

lation : the Marquisina has a right to the best apol- 
ogy I can make her ; and that opening is left for 
me to do it in — so I ran and begg'd pardon for 
the embarrassment I had given her, saying it was 
my intention to have made her way ! She answer- 
ed, she was guided by the same intention towards 
me — so we reciprocally thank'd each other. She 
was at the top of the stairs ; and seeing no chiches- 
bee near her, I begg'd to hand her to her coach — 
so we went down the stairs, stopping at every third 
step to talk of the concert and of the adventure, 

Upon my word, Madame, said I, when I had 

handed her in, I made six different efforts to let 
you go out — And I made six efforts, replied she, 
to let you enter — I wish to heaven you would 
make a seventh, said I — With all my heart, said 
she, making room — Life is too short to be long 
about the forms of it — so I instantly stepp'd in, 
and she carried me home with her — And what 
became of the concert, St. Cecilia, who I suppose 
was at ife, knows more than I. 

I will only add, that the connection which arose 
out of the translation, gave me more pleasure than 
any one I had the honour to make in Italy. 

SENT. JOURNEY, P. 106. 



ENMITY. 



THERE is no small degree of malicious 
craft in fixing upon a season to give a mark of en- 
mity and ill-will ; a word — a look, which at one 



232 

time would make no impression — at another time 
wounds the heart ; and like a shaft flying with the 
wind, pierces deep, which, with its own natural 
force, would scarce have reached the object aim- 
ed at. serm. xvi. p. 23. 



SHAME AND DISGRACE. 

THEY who have considered out nature, 
affirm, that shame and disgrace are two of the 
most insupportable evils of human life : the cour- 
age and spirits of many have mastered other mis- 
fortunes, and borne themselves up against them ; 
but the wisest and best of souls have not been a 
match for these ; and we have many a tragical in- 
stance on record, what greater evils have been run 
into, merely to avoid this one. 

Without this tax of infamy, poverty, with all 
the burdens it lays upon our flesh — so long as it 
is virtuous, could never break the spirits of a man ; 
all its hunger, and pain, and nakedness are nothing 
to it, they have some counterpoise of good ; and 
besides, they are directed by Providence, and must 
be submitted to : but those are afflictions not from 
the hand of God or nature — "for they do come forth 
of the dust, and most properly may be said to 
spring out of the ground, and this is the reason 
they lay such stress upon our patience, — and in 
the end creates such a distrust of the world, as 
makes us look up — and pray, Let me fall into thy 
hands , God ! but let me not fall into the hands of 
men*' 3 sermon xvi. p. 29. 



233 
CURIOSITY. 

THE love of variety, or curiosity of see- 
ing new things, which is the same, or at least a 
sister passion to it, — seems wove into the frame of 
every son and daughter of Adam ; we usually 
speak of it as one of nature's levities, though 
planted within us for the solid purposes of carry- 
ing forwards the mind to fresh inquiry and knowl- 
edge : strip us of it, the mind (I fear) would 
dose for ever over the present page, and we should 
all of us rest at ease with such objects as present- 
ed themselves in the parish or province where we 
first drew breath. 

It is to this spur, which is ever in our sides, 
that we owe the impatience of this desire for trav- 
elling : the passion is no way bad, — but as others 
are, — — in its mismanagement or excess ; — order 
it rightly, the advantages are worth the pursuit ; 
the chief or which are — to learn the languages, 
the laws and customs, and understand the govern- 
ment and interest of other nations, — to acquire an 
urbanity and confidence of behaviour, and fit the 
mind more easily for conversation and discourse- 
to take us out of the company of our aunts and 
grandmothers, and from the track of nursery mis- 
takes ; and by shewing us new objects, or old 
ones in new lights, to reform our judgments, — by 
tasting perpetually the varieties of nature, to know 
what is good— hy observing the address and arts of 
men, to conceive what is sincere, — and by seeing 
the difference of so many various humours and 
manners, — to look into ourselves and form our own. 
U 2 serm. xx. p. 104. 



234 
INJURY. 

AN injury unanswered, in course grows 
weary of itself, and dies away in a voluntary re- 
morse. 

In bad dispositions, capable of no restraint but 
fear — it has a different effect — the silent digestion 
of one wrong provokes a second. 

serm. xiv. p. 24. 



INSOLENCE. 

THE insolence of base minds in success is 
boundless ; and v/ould scarce admit of a compar- 
ison, did not they sometimes furnish us with one, 
in the degrees of their abjection when evil returns 
upon them — the same poor heart which excites 
ungenerous tempers to triumph over a fallen ad- 
versary, in some instances seems to exalt them 
above the point of courage, sinks them in others 

even below cowardice. Not unlike some little 

particles of matter struck off from the surface of 
the dirt by sunshine — dance and sport there whilst 
it lasts — but the moment 'tis withdrawn — they 
fall down — for dust they are — and unto dust they 
will return — whilst firmer and larger bodies pre- 
serve the stations which nature has assigned them, 
subjected to laws which no changes of weather 
can alter. sermon xxi. p. 25, 



l 235 

THE FILLE DE CHAMBRE. 

PARIS. 

I STOPP'D at the Quai de Conti in my 
return home, to purchase a set of Shakspeare. 

The bookseller said he had not a set in the 
world. — Comment ! said I ; taking one up out of 
a set which lay upon the counter betwixt us. — 
He said, they were sent him only to be got bound, 
and were to be sent back to Versailles in the morn- 
ing to the Count de B****. 

— And does the Count de B****, said I, read 
Shakspeare ? C'est un Esprit forty replied the book- 
seller. He loves English books ; and, what is 
more to his honour, Monsieur, he loves the En- 
glish too. You speak this so civilly, said I, that 
it is enough to oblige an Englishman to lay out a 
louis-d'or or two at your shop — The bookseller 
made a bow, and was going to say something, 
when a young decent girl, of about twenty, who 
by her air and dress seemed to be Fille de Chambre 
to some devout man of fashion, came into the 
shop, and asked for Les Egarements du Cceur & de 
V Esprit ; the bookseller gave her the book direct- 
ly ; she pulled out a little green satin purse run 
round with a riband of the same colour, and put- 
ting her finger and thumb into it, she took out 
the money and paid for it. As I had nothing 
more to stay me in the shop, we both walked out 
of the door together. 

— And what have you to do, my dear, said I, 
with The wanderings of the heart , who scarce know 
yet you have one ? nor, till love has first told you 
it, or some faithless shepherd has made it ach, canst 



236 

thou ever be sure it is so.- Le Dieu m y en garde / 

said the girl. With what reason, said I, — for 

if it is a good one, 'tis a pity it should be stolen i 
? tis a little treasure to thee, and gives a better air 
to your face, than if it was dressed out with pearls. 

The young girl listened with a submissive at- 
tention, holding her satin purse by its riband in 
her hand all the time. — 'Tis a very small one, said 
I, taking hold of the bottom of it — she held it 
towards me — and there is very little in it, my dear y 
said I ; but be as good as thou art handsome, and 
Heaven will fill it ; I had a parcel of crowns in 
my hand to pay for Shakspeare ; and as she let go 
the purse entirely, I put a single one into it ; and 
tying up the riband in a bow-knot, returned it to 
her. 

The young girl made me more an humble cour- 
tesy than a low one — it was one of those quiet, 
thankful sinkings where the spirit bows itself 
down — the body does no more than tell it. I 
never gave a girl a crown in my life which gave 
me half the pleasure. 

My advice, my dear, would not have been worth 
a pin to you, said I, if I had not given this along 
with it : but now, when you see the crown, you 

will remember it — so do not, my dear, lay it 

out in ribands. 

Upon my word, Sir, said the girl earnestly, I 
am incapable — in saying which, as is usual in little 
bargains of honour, she gave me her hand — En 
verite. Monsieur ^je mettrai cet argent apart, said she* 

When a virtuous convention is made betwixt 
man and woman, it sanctifies their most private 



237 

walks ; so notwithstanding it was dusky, yet as 
both our roads lay the same way, we made no 
scruple of walking along the Quai de Cont'i to- 
gether. 

She made me a second courtesy in setting off, 
and before we got twenty yards from the door, as 
if she had not done enough before, she made a sort 
of a little stop to tell me again — she thanked me. 

It was a small tribute, I told her, which I 
could not avoid paying to virtue, and would not 
be mistaken in the person I had been rendering it 
to for the world — but I see innocence, my dear, 
in your face —and foul befal the man who ever 
lays a snare in its way. 

The girl seemed affected some way or other 
with what I said — she gave a low sigh — I found 
I was not empowered to inquire at all after it — 
so said nothing more till I got to the corner of 
the Rue de Nevers> where we were to part. 

— But is this the way, my dear, said I, to the 
Hotel de Modene P she told me it was — or, that I 
might go by the Rue de Gueneguault, which was 
the next turn. — Then I will go, my dear, by the 
Rue de Gueneguault, said I, for two reasons ; first, 
I shall please myself, and next, I shall give you 
the protection of my company as far on your way 
as I can. The girl was sensible I was civil — and 
said she wished the Hotel de Modene was in the 
Rue de St. Pierre. — You live there, said I. She 
told me she was file de chambre to Madam R**** 
— Good God ! said I, it is the very lady for whom 
I have brought a letter from Amiens. — The girl 
told me that Madame R****, she believed, ex- 



238 

pected a stranger with a letter, and was impatient 
to see him — so I desired the girl to present my 
compliments to Madame R****, and say I would 
certainly wait upon her in the morning. 

We stood still at the corner of the Rue de Ne- 
vers whilst this passed we then stopped a mo- 
ment whilst she disposed of her Egarements du 
Cceur^ more commodiously than carrying them in 
her hand — they were two volumes ; so I held the 
second for her whilst she put the first into her 
pocket ; and then she held her pocket, and I put 
the other in after it. 

It is sweet to feel by what fine-spun threads our 
affections are drawn together. 

We set off afresh, and as sfie took her third 
step, the girl put her hand within my arm — I was 
just bidding her — but she did it of herself, with 
that undeliberating simplicity, which shewed it 
was out of her head that she had never seen me 
before. For my own part, I felt the conviction 
of sanguinity so strongly, that I could not help 
turning half round to look in her face, and see if 
I could trace out any thing in it of a family like- 
ness. Tut ! said I, are we not all relations ? 

When we arrived at the turning of the Rue de 
Gueneguault, I stopped to bid her adieu for good 
and all : the girl would thank me again for my 

company and kindness She bid me adieu twice 

— I repeated it as often ; and so cordial was the 
parting between us, that had it happened any 
where else, I'm not sure but I should have signed 
it with a kiss of charity, as warm and as holy 
as an Apostle. 



239 

But in Paris, as none kiss each other but the 
men — I did what amounted to the same thing — 
I bid God bless her. 

SENT. JOURNEY, P. 121. 



CONTUMELY. 

HOW many may we observe every day, 
oven of the gentler sex, as well as our own, who, 
without conviction of doing much wrong, in the 
midst of a full career of calumny and defamation, 
rise up punctual at the stated hour of prayer, leave 
the cruel story half untold till they return, — go,— - 
and kneel down before the throne of Heaven, 
thank God that he had not made them like others, 
and that his Holy Spirit had enabled them to 
perform the duties of the day, in so Christian and 
conscientious a manner ! 

This delusive itch for slander, too common in 
all ranks of people, w T hether to gratify a little un- 
generous resentment ; whether oftener out of a 
principle of levelling, from a narrowness and pov- 
erty of soul, ever impatient of merit and superior- 
ity in others ; whether a mean ambition, or the 
insatiate lust of being witty, (a talent in which ill- 
nature and malice are no ingredients ;) or, lastly, 
whether from a natural cruelty of disposition, ab- 
stracted from all views and considerations of self ; 
to which one, or whether to all jointly ; we are 
indebted for this contagious malady, this much is 
certain, from whatever seeds it springs, the growth 



240 

and progress of it are as destructive to, as they are 
unbecoming a civilized people. To pass a hard 
and ill-natured reflection upon an undesigning 
action ; to invent, or, which is equally bad, to 
propagate a vexatious report, without colour and 
grounds ; to plunder an innocent man of his 
character and good name, a jewel which perhaps 
he has starved himself to purchase, and probably 
would hazard his life to secure ; to rob him at 
the same time of his happiness and peace of mind ; 
perhaps his bread, — the bread, may be, of a vir- 
tuous family ; and this, as Solomon says of the 
madman, who casteth fire-brands, arrows, and 
death, and saith, Am I not in sport ? all this out 
of wantonness, and oftener from worse motives ; 
the whole appears such a complication of badness, 
as requires no words or warmth of fancy to aggra- 
vate. Pride, treachery, envy, hypocrisy, malice, 
cruelty, and self-love, may have been said, in one 
shape or other, to have occasioned all the frauds 
and mischiefs that ever happened in the world : 
but the chances against a coincidence of them all 
in one person are so many, that one would have 
supposed the character of a common slanderer as 
rare and difficult a production in nature, as that of 
a great genius, which seldom happens above once 
in an age. sermon xi. p. 226. 



SEDUCTION. 

HOW abandoned is that heart which bul- 
ges the tear of innocence, and is the cause— the 



241 

fatal cause of overwhelming the spotless soul, and 
plunging the yet untainted mind into a sea of sor- 
row and repentance ! — Though born to protect 
the fair, does not man act the part of a demon — 
first alluring by his temptations, and then triumph- 
ing in his victory ? — When villany gets the as- 
cendancy, it seldom leaves the wretch till it has 
thoroughly polluted him. letter cxxix. 



SLANDER. 

HOW frequently is the honesty and integ- 
rity of a man disposed of by a smile or shrug ! — 
how many good and generous actions have been 
sunk into oblivion, by a distrustful look, or stampt 
with the imputation of proceeding from bad mo- 
tives, by a mysterious and seasonable whisper ! 

Look into companies of those whose gentle na- 
tures should disarm them, we shall find no better 
account. — How large a portion of chastity is sent 
out of the world by distant hints, — nodded away 
and cruelly winked into suspicion, by the envy of 
those who are past all temptation of it themselves ! 
How often does the reputation of a helpless crea- 
ture bleed by a report — which the party, who is 
at the pains to propagate it, beholds with much 
pity and fellow-feeling— that she is heartily sor- 
ry for it, hopes in God it is not true : how- 
ever, as Archbishop Tillotson wittily observes upon 
it, is resolved, in the mean time, to give the report 
her pass, that at least it may have fair play to take 
W 



242 

its fortune in the world, — to be believed or not, 
according to the charity of those into whose hands 
it shall happen to fall ! 

So fruitful is this vice in variety of expedients, 
to satiate as well as disguise itself. But if these 
smoother weapons cut so sore, — what shall we say 
of open and unblushing scandal — subjected to no 
caution, tied down to no restraints ! — -If the one, 
like an arrow shot in the dark, does nevertheless 
so much secret mischief, — this, like the pestilence, 
which rageth at noon-day, sweeps all before it, 
levelling without distinction the good and the bad ; 
a thousand fall beside it, and ten thousand on its 
right hand ; — they fall — so rent and torn in this 
tender part of them 3 so unmercifully butchered, as 

sometimes never to recover either the wounds 

or the anguish of heart which they have occasioned. 

But there is nothing so bad which will not ad- 
mit of something to be said in its defence. 

And here it may be ask'd — whether the incon- 
veniences and ill effects which the world feels from 
the licentiousness of this practice — are not suf- 
ficiently counterbalanced by the real influence it 
has upon men's lives and conduct ? — that if there 
was no evil-speaking in the world, thousands would 

be encouraged to do ill, and would rush into 

many indecorums, like a horse into the battle, — 
were they sure to escape the tongues of men. 

That if we take a general view of the world, — 
we shall find that a great deal of virtue, — at. least 
of the outward appearance of it, — is not so much 
from any fixed principle, as the terror of what the 



243 

world will say, — and the liberty it will take upon 
the occasions we shall give. 

That if we descend to particulars, numbers are 
every day taking more pains to be well spoken of, 
than what would actually enable them to live so as 
to deserve it. 

That there are many of both sexes who can sup- 
port life well enough without honour or chastity, — 
who without reputation ( which is but the opinion 
which the world has of the matter,) would hide 
their heads in shame, and sink down in utter des- 
pair of happiness. — No doubt the tongue is a weap- 
on which does chastize many indecorums which 
the laws of men will not reach, — and keeps many 
in awe — whom conscience will not ; — and where 
the case is indisputably flagrant^ — the speaking of 
it in such words as it deserves — scarce comes with- 
in the prohibition. In many cases it is hard to 

express ourselves so as to fix a distinction betwixt 
opposite characters ; — and sometimes it may be as 
much a debt we owe to virtue, and as great a piece 
of justice to expose a vicious character, and paint 
it in its proper colours, — as it is to speak well of 
the deserving, and describe his particular virtues.— 
And, indeed, when we inflict this punishment up- 
on the bad, merely out of principle and without 
indulgences to any private passion of our own, it 
is a case which happens so seldom, that one might 
venture to except it. sermon p. 22Q* 



244 
DR. SLOP AND SUSANNAH. 

WHEN the cataplasm was ready, a 
scruple of decorum had unseasonably rose up in 
Susannah's conscience, about holding the candle, 
while Slop tied it on ; Slop had not treated Susan- 
nah's distemper with anodynes — and so a quarrel 
had ensued betwixt them. 

Oh ! oh ! — said Slop, casting a glance of 

undue freedom in Susannah's face, as she declined 
the office ; — then, I think I know you, Madam 
You know me, Sir ! cried Susannah fastidi- 
ously, and with a toss of her head, levelled evi- 
dently, not at his profession, but at the doctor 

himself, you know me ! cried Susannah again. 

Doctor Slop clapped his finger and his thumb 

instantly upon his nostrils ; — Susannah's spleen 
was ready to burst at it ;— 'Tis false, said Susan- 
nah Come, come, Mrs. Modesty, said Slop , not 

a little elated with the success of his last thrust,— 
if you won't hold the candle, and look — you may 
hold it and shut your eyes : — That's one of your 
Popish shifts, cried Susannah : — 'Tis better, said 
Slop, with a nod, than no shift at all, young wo- 
man ! and I defy you, Sir, cried Susannah, 

pulling her shift sleeve below her elbow. 

It was almost impossible for two persons to as- 
sist each other in a surgical case with a more 
splenetic cordiality. 

Slop snatched up the cataplasm. — Susannah 

snatched up the candle ; A little this way, 

said Slop ; Susannah looking one way, and rowing 
another, instantly set fire to Slop's wig, which 



245 

being somewhat bushy and unctuous withal, was 
burnt out before it was well kindled. You im- 
pudent whore ! cried Slop,— (for what is passion 
but a wild beast ? — ) you impudent whore, cried 
Slop, getting upright, with the cataplasm in his 

hand ; 1 never was the destruction of any 

body's nose, said Susannah, — which is more than 
you can say : — Is it ? — cried Slop, throwing the 
cataplasm in her face : — Yes, it is, cried Susannah, 
returning the compliment with what was left in 
the pan. t. shandy, vol. hi. c. 46. 



CHARITY TO ORPHANS. 

THEY whom God hath blessed with the 
means, and for whom he has done more, in bless- 
ing them likewise with a disposition, have abun- 
dant reason to be thankful to him, as the Author 
of every good gift, for the measure he bath be- 
stowed to them of both : 'tis the refuge against 
the stormy wind and tempest, which he has planted 
in our hearts ; and the constant fluctuation of 
every thing in this world, forces all the sons and 
daughters of Adam to seek shelter under it by 
turns. Guard it by entails and settlements as we 
will, the most affluent plenty may be stripp'd, and 
find all its worldly comforts, like so many withered 
leaves dropping from us ;- — the crowns of princes 
may be shaken ; and the greatest that ever awed 
the world, have looked back and moralized upon 
the turn of the wheel. 
W2 



246 

- That which has happened to one, may happen 
to every man : and therefore that excellent rule of 
our Saviour, in acts of benevolence, as well as 
every thing else, should govern us ; that whatso* 
ever ye 'would that men should do to you, do ye also 
unto them. 

Hast thou ever lain upon the bed of languish- 
ing, or laboured under a distemper which threat- 
ened thy life ? Call to mind thy sorrowful and 
pensive spirit at that time, and say, What it was 
that made the thoughts of death so bitter ?— If 
thou hast children,— I affirm it, the bitterness of 
death lay there ! If unbrought up, and unprovid- 
ed for, What will become of them ? Where will 
they find a friend when I am gone ? Who will 
stand up for them, and plead their cause against 
the wicked ? 

Blessed God ! to thee, who art a father to the 
fatherless, and husband to the widow. 1 en- 
trust them. 

Hast thou ever sustained any considerable shock 
in thy fortune ? or, has the scantiness of thy con- 
dition hurried thee into great straits, and brought 
thee almost to distraction ? Consider what was it 
that spread a table in that wilderness of thought, 
—who made thy cup to overflow ? Was it not a 
friend of consolation who stepped in, saw thee em- 
barrassed with tender pledges of thy love, and 
the partner of thy cares, — took them under his 
protection ?— Heaven ! thou wilt reward him for 
. it !— and freed thee from all the terrifying appre- 
hensions of a parent's love ? 

.—Hast thou— 



2*7 

-But how shall I ask a question which must 

bring tears into so many eyes ? — Hast thou ever 
been wounded in a more affecting manner still, by 
the loss of a most obliging friend, — or been torn 
away from the embraces of a dear and promising 
child by the stroke of death ? Bitter remembrance ! 
nature droops at it — but nature is the same in all 
conditions and lots of life. — A child thrust forth 
in an evil hour, without food, without raiment, 
bereft of instruction, and the means of its salva- 
tion, is a subject of more tender heart-aches, and 

will awaken every power of nature : as we 

have felt for ourselves, — let us feel for Christ's 
sake — let us feel for theirs. 

SERM. XXIII. p. 164. 



CRITICISM. 

HOW did Garrick speak the soliloquy 
last night ? — Oh, against all rule— my Lord — 
most ungrammatically ! betwixt the substantive 
and the adjective, which should agree together in 
number 9 case, and gender, he made a breach thus, 
stopping, as if the point wanted settling ; — and 
betwixt the nominative case, which your Lordship 
knows should govern the verb, he suspended his 
voice in the epilogue a dozen times, three seconds 
and three fifths by a stop-watch, my Lord, each 
time — Admirable grammarian !— - -but in suspend- 
ing his voice — was the sense suspended likewise ? 
did no expression of attitude or countenance fill 



248 

up the chasm ? — Was the eye silent ? Did you 
narrowly look ? — I look'd only at the stop-watch, 
my Lord. — Excellent observer ! 

And what of this new book the whole world 
makes such a noise about ? Oh 1 'tis out of all 
plumb, my Lord, — quite an irregular thing ! — 
not one of the angles at the four corners was a 
right angle. — I had my rule and compasses, &c. 
my Lord, in my pocket ! Excellent critic ! 

— And for the epic poem your Lordship bid 
me look at — upon taking the length, breadth, 
height, and depth of it, and trying them at home 
upon an exact scale of Bossu's — 'tis out, my Lord, 
in every one of its dimensions. — Admirable con- 
noisseur ! — And did you step in, to take a look 
at the grand picture in your way back ? — 'Tis a 
melancholy daub ! my Lord ; not one principle 
of the pyramid in any one group ! — and what a 
price ! — for there is nothing of the colouring of 
Titian— the expression of Rubens — the grace of 
Raphael — the purity of Dominichino — the corregies- 
city of Corregio— the learning of Pons sin — the airs 
of Guido — the taste of Carrachio — or the grand 
contour of Angela. — Grant me patience, just 
Heaven ! — Of all the cants which are canted in 
this canting world — though the cant of hypocrites 
may be the worst — the cant of criticism is the 
most tormenting ! 

I would go fifty miles on foot to kiss the hand 
of that man whose generous heart will give up the 
reigns of his imagination into his author's hands — 
be pleased he knows not why, and cares not 
wherefore. t. shandy, vol. ii. p. 25. 



249 

EPITAPH ON A LADY. 

COLUMNS and lalour'd urns but vainly show 

An idle scene of decorated woe. 

The sweet companion, and the friend sincere, 

Need no mechanic help to force a tear. 

In heart-felt numbers, never meant to shine ; 

'Twill flow eternal o'er a hearse like thine ; 

'Twill flow whilst gentle goodness has one friend, 

Or kindred tempers have a tear to lend. 

LETTER XLI. 



DEATH-BED REPENTANCE. 

WHEN the edge of appetite is worn 
down, and the spirits of youthful days are cooled, 
which hurried us on in a circle of pleasure and im- 
pertinence, — then reason and reflection will have 
the weight which they deserve ; — afflictions, or 
the bed of sickness, will supply the place of con- 
science ; — and if they should fail, — old age will 
overtake us at last, — and shew us the past pur- 
suits of life, — and force us to look upon them in 
their true point of view. If there be any thing 
more to cast a cloud upon so melancholy a pros- 
pect as this shews us, — it is surely the difficulty 
and hazard of having all the work of the day to 
perform in the last hour : of making an atonement 
to God when we have no sacrifice to offer him, 
but the dregs and infirmities of those days, when 
we could have no pleasure in them. Whatever 
stress some may lay upon it— a death-bed repent- 



250 

ance is but a weak and slender plank to trust our 
all upon. sermon xxxviii. p. 142. 



THE ADDRESS. 

VERSAILLES. 

I SHOULD not like to have my enemy 
take a view of my mind when I am going to ask 
protection of any man ; for which reason I gener- 
ally endeavour to protect myself ; but this going 
to Monsieur le Due de C**** was an act of corn- 

pulsion had it been an act of choice, I should 

have done it, I suppose, like other people. 

How many mean plans of dirty address, as I 
went along, did my servile heart form ? I deserved 
the Bastile for every one of them. 

Then nothing would serve me, when I got 
within sight of Versailles, but putting words and 
sentences together, and conceiving attitudes and 
tones to wreath myself into Monsieur le Due de 
C**#*'s good graces — This will do, said I — Just 
as well, retorted I again, as a coat carried up to 
him by an adventurous taylor, without taking the 
measure — Fool ! continued I — see Monsieur le 
Due's face first — observe what character is writ- 
ten in it — take notice in what posture he stands 
to hear you — mark the turns and expressions of 
his body and limbs — and for the tone— the first 
sound which comes from his lips will give it you ; 
and from all these together you'll compound an 
address at once upon the spot, which cannot dis- 
gust the Duke — the ingredients are his own, and 
mpst likely to go down* 



251 

Well ! said I, I wish it well over — Coward 
again ! as if man to man were not equal through- 
out the whole surface of the globe : and if in the 
field — why not face to face in the cabinet too ? 
And trust me, Yorick, whenever it is not so, man 
is false to- himself, and betrays his own succours 
ten times where nature does it once. Go to the 
Due de C**** with the Bastile in thy look — my 
life for it, thou wilt be sent back to Paris in half 
an hour with an escort. 

I believe so, said I — Then I'll go to the Duke, 
by Heaven ! with all the gaiety and debonairness 
in the world. — 

— And there you are wrong again, replied I 
A heart at ease, Yorick, flies into no ex- 
tremes — 'tis ever on its center- — -Well ! well ! 
cried I, as the coachman tiirn'd in at the gates, I 
find I shall do very well : and by the time he had 
wheel' d round the court, and brought me up to 
the door, I found myself so much the better for 
my own lecture, that I neither ascended the steps 
like a victim to justice, who was to part with life 
upon the topmost — nor did I mount them with 
a skip and a couple of strides, as I do when I fly 
up, Eliza ! to thee, to meet it. — 

SENT. JOURNEY, P. 144. 



INHUMANITY. 

THERE is a secret shame which attends 
every act of inhumanity, not to be conquered if* 
the hardest natures. 



252 

Many a man will do a cruel act, who at the 
same time will blush to look you in the face, 
and is forced to turn aside before he can have a 
heart to execute his purpose. 

Inconsistent creature that a man is ! who, at 
that instant that he does what is wrong, is not 
able to withhold his testimony to what is good 
and praise-worthy. serm. hi. p. 56. 



JUDGMENT OF THE WORLD, 

TO judge justly of the world, we must 
stand at a due distance from it ; — which will dis- 
cover to us the vanity of its riches and honours, 
in such true dimensions, as will engage us to be- 
have ourselves towards them with moderation. — 
This is all that is wanting to make us wise and 
good ; — that we may be left to the full influence 
of religion ; — to which Christianity so far con- 
duces, that it is the greatest blessing, the peculiar 
advantage we enjoy under its institution ,~^-that it 
affords us not only the most excellent precepts of 
this kind, but it also shews us those precepts con- 
firmed by the most excellent examples. — A heathen 
philosopher may talk very elegantly about despis- 
ing the world, and, like Seneca, may prescribe very 
ingenious rules to teach us an art he never exer- 
cised himself : — for all the while he was writing 
in praise of poverty, he was enjoying a great 
estate, and endeavouring to make it greater,— -but 
if ever we hope to reduce those rules to practice, 
it must be by the help of religion. 

serm. xxxvi. p. 118. 



253 

SUICIDE. 

WHAT scripture and all civilized nations 
teach concerning the crime of taking away another 
man's life — is applicable to the wickedness of a 
man's attempting to bereave himself of his own.— 
He has no more right over it, — than over that of 
others ; — and whatever false glosses have been put 

upon it by men of bad heads or bad hearts, it is 

at the bottom a complication of cowardice, and 
wickedness, and weakness — is one of the fatalest 
mistakes desperation can hurry a man into ; — in- 
consistent with all the reasoning and religion of 
the world, and irreconcileable with that patience 
under afflictions, — that resignation and submission 
to the will of God in all straits, which is required 
of us. But if our calamities be brought upon our- 
selves by a man's own wickedness, — still has he 
less to urge, — less reason has he to renounce the 
protection of God — when he most stands in need 
of it, and of his mercy, sermon xxxv. p. 104-. 



JUSTICE. 



EVERY obstruction of the course of jus- 
tice, is a door opened to betray society, and be- 
reave us of those blessings which it has in view. 
To stand up for the privilege of such places, is to 
invite men to sin with a bribe of impunity. — It is 
a strange way of doing honour to God, to screen 
actions which are a disgrace to humanity. 

X IB. p. 103. 



BAD EFFECTS OF QUACKERY. 

SO great are the difficulties of tracing out 
the hidden causes of the evils to which this frame 
of ours is subject, — that the most candid of the 
profession have ever allowed and lamented how 
unavoidably they are in the dark. — So that the 
best medicines, administered with the wisest heads, 
shall often do the mischief they were intended to 
prevent. — These are misfortunes to which we are 
subject in this state of darkness ; — but when 
men without skill, — without education, — without 
knowledge either of the distemper, or even of 
what they sell, — make merchandize of the misera- 
aiid, from a dishonest principle, — trifle with 
the pains of the unfortunate, — too often with their 
lives, — and from the mere motive of a dishonest 
gain, — every such instance of a person bereft of 
life by the hand of ignorance, can be considered 
IB no other light than a branch of the same root. — 
It is murder in the true sense ; — which, though 
not cognizable by our laws, — by the laws of right, 
everv man's own mind and conscience must appear 
equally black and detestable. — 

In doing what is wrong, — we stand chargeable 

with all the bad consequences which arise from the 

action, whether foreseen or not. And as the prin- 

view of the empiric in those cases is not what 

jrs pretends, — the good of the public, — 
J of himself, — it makes the action 

is. — 
ider this head, it may not be improper to com- 
3ns of medicines, wilfully 



<Z55 

made worse through avarice. — If a life is lost by 
such wilful adulterations, — and it may be affirmed, 
that, in many critical turns of an acute distemper, 
there is but a single cast left for the patient, — ■ 
the trial and chance of a single drug in his behalf ; 
—and if that has wilfully been adulterated, and 
wilfully despoiled of its best virtues, — what will 
the vender answer ?■ — * 

SERMON XXXV. P. 109* 



REGULATION OF SPIRIT. 

THE great business of man is the regula- 
tion of his spirit ; the possession of such a frame 
and temper of mind, as will lead us peaceably 
through this world, and in the many weary stages 
of it, afford us, what we shall be sure to stand in 
need, — Rest unto our souls. 

Rest unto our souls ! — 'tis all we want — the 
end of all our wishes and pursuits : give us a pros- 
pect of this, we take the wings of the morning, 
and fly to the uttermost parts of the earth to have 
it in possession : we seek for it in titles, in riches 
and pleasures — climb up after it by ambition, — 
come down again and stoop for it by avarice, — 
try all extremes ; still we are gone out of the way ; 
nor is it, till after many miserable experiments, 
that we are convinced at last, we have been seek- 
ing every where for it, but where there is a pros- 
pect of finding it ; and that is, within ourselves, 
in a meek and lowly disposition of heart. This, 



256 

and this only will give us rest unto our souls : — 
rest, from those turbulent and haughty passions 
which disturb our quiet : — rest from the provo- 
cations and disappointments of the world, and a 
train of untold evils too long to be recounted, 
against all which this frame and preparation of 
mind is the best protection. 

sermon xxv. p. 189. 



JUSTICE AND HONESTY. 

JUSTICE and honesty contribute very 
much towards all the faculties of the mind : I mean, 
that it clears up the understanding from that mist, 
which dark and crooked designs are apt to raise 
in it, — and that it keeps up a regularity in the 
affections, by suffering no lusts or by-ends to disor- 
der them. — That it likewise preserves the mind 
from all damps of grief and melancholy, which 
are the sure consequences of unjust actions ; and 
that by such an improvement of the faculties, it 
makes a man so much the abler to discern, and so 
much the more cheerful, active, and diligent to 
mind his business Light is sown for the right- 
eous, says the prophet, and gladness for the up- 
right in heart. 

Secondly, let it be observed, — that in the con- 
tinuance and course of a virtuous man's affairs, 
there is little probability of his falling into consid- 
erable disappointments or calamities ; -not only 
because guarded by the providence of God, but 



257 

that honesty is in its own nature the freest from 
danger. 

First, because such a one lays no projects, which 
it is the interest of the other to blast, and there- 
fore needs no indirect methods or deceitful prac- 
tices to secure his interest by undermining others. 
— The paths of virtue are plain and straight, so 
that the blind, persons of the meanest capacity, 
shall not err. — Dishonesty requires skill to conduct 
it, and as great art to conceal — what 'tis every 
one's interest to detect. And I think I need not 
remind you how oft it happens in attempts of this 
kind- — where worldly men in haste to be rich, 
have over-run the only means to it, — and for want 
of laying their contrivances with proper cunning, 
or managing them with proper secrecy and advan- 
tage, have lost for ever, what they might have 
certainly secured with honesty and plain-dealing. — 
The general causes of the disappointments in their 
business, or of the unhappiness in their lives, lying 
but too manifestly in their own disorderly passions, 
which, by attempting to carry them a shorter way 
to riches and honour, disappoint them of both for 
ever, and make plain, their ruin is from themselves ; 
and that they eat the fruits which their own hands 
have watered and ripened, serm.xxviii. p. 253, 



THE TEMPTATION. 

PARIS. 

WHEN I alighted at the hotel, the por- 
ter told me a young woman with a band-box had 
X2 



C 25S 

D2cn that moment inquiring for me. — I do not 
know, said the porter, whether she is gone away 
or no. I took the key of my chamber of him, 
and went up stairs ; and when I had got within 
ten steps of the top of the landing before my door, 
I met her coming easily down. 

It was the fair jille de chambre I had walked 
along the Quai de Conti with : Madame de R**** 
had sent her upon some commission to a merchant l e 
de modes within a step or two of the Hotel de Mo- 
dene ; and as I had failed in waiting upon her, had 
bid her inquire if I had left Paris : and if so, 
whether I had not left a letter addressed to her. 

As the fdirjille de chambre was so near my door, 
blie returned back, and went into the room with 
me for a moment or two, whilst I wrote a card. 

It was a line still evening in the latter end of 
the month of May— the crimson window-curtains 
(which were of the same colour of. those of the 
bed) were drawn close — the sun was setting, — and 
reflected thro' them so warm a tint into the fair 
lie de chambre' l s face— I thought she blush'd — 
the idea of it made me blush myself — we were 
quite alone ; and that superinduced a second blush 
are the first could get off. 

There is a sort of pleasing half-guilty blush, 

| he blood is more in fault than the man — - 

it impetuous from the heart, and virtue flies 

it not to call it back, but to make the sen- 

>n of it more delicious to the nerves— 'tis 

associated 

But I'll not describe it-—— — I felt something 
at first within me which was not in strict unison 



259 

with the lesson of virtue I had given her the night 
before — I sought five minutes for a card — I knew 
I had not one. I took up a pen — I laid it down 
again — — my hand trembled — the devil was in me. 

I know as well as any one he is an adversary, 
whom if we resist he will fly from us — but I seldom 
resist him at all ; from a terror that, though I may 
conquer, I may still get a hurt in the combat — 
so I give up the triumph for security ; and instead 
of thinking to make him fly, I generally fly myself. 

The fair jille de chambre came close up to the 
bureau where I was looking for a card — first took 
up the pen I cast down, then offer' d to hold me 
the ink ; she offered it so sweetly, I was going to 
accept it— but I durst not — I have nothing, my 
dear, said I, to write upon. — Write it, said she, 
simply, upon any thing — 

I was just going to cry out, Then I will write, 
fair girl ! upon thy lips. 

If I do, said I, I shall perish so I took her 

by the hand, and led her to the door, and begg'd 
she would not forget the lesson I had given her 
_ She said, indeed she would not — and as she 
uttered it with some earnestness, she turn'd about, 
and gave me both her hands, closed together, in- 
to mine— it was impossible not to compress them 

in that situation- 1 wish'd to let them go ; and 

all the time I held them, I kept arguing within 

myself against it — and still I held them on. 

In two minutes I found I had the battle to fight 
over again— and felt my legs and every limb about 
me tremble at the idea. 

The foot of the bed was within a yard and a 



260 

half of the place where we were standing — I had 
still hold of her hands — and how it happened I 
can give no account, but I neither ask'd her — nor 
drew her — nor did I think of the bed — but so it 
did happen, we both sat down. 

I'll just shew you, said the fair Jille de chambre, 
the little purse I have been making to-day to hold 
your crown. So she put her hand into her right 
pocket- which was next to me, and felt for it some 

time — then into the left — " She had lost it." 

I never bore expectation more quietly — it was in 
her right pocket at last — she pull'd it out : it was 
of green tafFety, lined with a little bit of white 
quilted satin, and just big enough to hold the 
crown — she put it into my hand ; — it was pretty ; 
and I held it ten minutes, with the back of my 
hand resting upon her lap — looking sometimes at 
the purse, sometimes on one side of it. 

A stich or two had broke out in the gathers of 
my stock — the fair file de chambre, without say- 
ing a word, took out her little housewife, threaded 
a small needle, and sew'd it up — I foresaw it would 
hazard the glory of the day, and as she pass'd her 
hand in silence across and across my neck in the 
manoeuvre, I felt the laurels shake which fancy had 
wreath' d about my head. 

A strap had given way in her walk, and the 
buckle of her shoe was just falling off — See, said 
thejille de chambre, holding up her foot. — I could 
not from my soul but fasten the buckle in return, 
and putting in the strap — and lifting up the other 
foot with it, when I had done, to see both were 
right — in doing it too suddenly — it unavoidably 



261 

threw the fair Jllk de chambre off her center — and 
then — sent, journey, p. 174. 



THE CONQUEST. 

YES and then Ye whose clay- 
cold heads and lukewarm hearts can argue down 
or mask your passions, tell me, what trespass is it 
that man should have them ? or how his spirit 
stands answerable to the Father of spirits, but for 
his conduct under them ? 

If Nature has so wove her web of kindness, 
that some threads of love and desire are entangled 
with the piece — must the whole web be rent in 
drawing them out ? Whip me such stoics, great 
Governor of nature ! said I to myself — Wherever 
thy providence shall place me for the trial of my 
virtue — whatever is my danger — whatever is my 
situation — let me feel the movements which rise 
out of it, and which belong to me as a man — and 
if I govern them as a good one, I will trust the is- 
sues to thy justice : for thou hast made us, and 
not we ourselves. 

As I finish'd my address, I raised the fair jille 
de chambre up by the hand, and let her out of the 
room— she stood by me till I lock'd the door 

and put the key in my pocket and then — ; — 

the victory being quite decisive — and not till 
then, I press'd my lips to her cheek, and, taking 
her by the hand, led her safe to the gate of the 
hoteL sent, journey, p. 179. 



262 



\ 



APPLICATION OF RICHES. 

HOW God did intend them, • — may as 
well be known from an appeal to your own hearts, 
and the inscription you shall read there, — as from 
any chapter and verse I might cite upon the sub- 
ject. Let us then for a moment turn our eyes 
that way, and consider the traces which even the 
most insensible man may have proof of, from what 
we may perceive springing up within him from 
some casual act of generosity ; and though this is 
a pleasure which properly belongs to the good, yet 
let him try the experiment ; — let him comfort the 
captive, or cover the naked with a garment, and 
he will feel what is meant by that moral delight a- 
rising in the mind from the conscience of a humane 
action. 

But to know it right we must call upon the 
compassionate ; cruelty gives evidence unwillingly, 
and feels the pleasure but imperfectly ; for this, 
like all other pleasures, is of a relative nature, and 
consequently the enjoyment of it requires some 
qualification in the faculty, as much as the enjoy- 
ment of any other good does : — there must be 
something antecedent in the disposition and tem- 
per which will render that good, — a good to that 
individual ; otherwise, though 'tis true it may be 
possessed, — yet it never can be enjoyed. 

SERMON XXIII. p. 162. 



263 

REASON. 

THE judgments of the more disinterested 
and impartial of us, receive no small tincture from 
our affections : we generally consult them in all 
the doubtful points ; and it happens well if the 
matter in question is not almost settled before the 
arbitrator is called into the debate ; — but in the 
more flagrant instances, where the passions govern 
the whole man, 'tis melancholy to see the office to 
which reason, the great prerogative of his nature, 
is reduced : serving the lower appetites in the dis- 
honest drudgery of finding out arguments to justi- 
fy the present pursuit. 

To judge rightly of our own worth, we should 
retire a little from the world, to see its pleasures — 
and pains too, in their proper size and dimensions : 
this, no doubt, was the reason St. Paul, when he 
intended to convert Felix, began his discourse upon 
the day of judgment, on purpose to take the heart 
from off this world and its pleasures, which dishon- 
our the understanding, so as to turn the wisest of 
men into fools and children. 

SERMON xix. p. 87* 



THE CHARITY. 



THERE is a long dark passage issuing 
out from the opera comique into a narrow street ; 
'tis trod by a few who humbly wait for ?l fiacre, or 
wish to getoff quietly o'foot when the opera is done. 



264 

At the end of it towards the theatre, 'tis lighted 
by a small candle, the light of which is almost lost 
before you get half-way down : but near the door 
— 'tis more for ornament than use, you see it as a 
fix'd star of the least magnitude ; it burns — but 
does little good to the world that we know of. 

In returning along this passage, I discern'd, as 
I approach' d within five or six paces of the door, 
two ladies standing arm in arm, with their backs 
against the wall, waiting, as I imagined, for a fia- 
cre — as they were next the door, I thought they 
had a prior right ; so edged myself up within a 
yard, or little more, of them, and quietly took my 
stand 1 was in black, and scarce seen. 

The lady next me was a tall lean figure of a 
woman, of about thirty-six ; the other of the same 
size and make, of about forty ; there was no mark 
of wife or widow in any one part of either of them 
— they seem'd to be two upright vestal sisters, 
unsapp'd by caresses, unbroke in upon by tender 
salutations : I could have wish'd to have made 
them happy — their happiness was destin'd that 
night, to come from another quarter. 

A loud voice, with a good turn of expression, 
and sweet cadence at the end of it, begg'd for a 
twelve-sous piece betwixt them, for the love of 
Heaven. I thought it singular that a beggar 
would fix the quota of an alms- — and that the sum 
should be twelve times as much as what is usually 
given in the dark. They both seemed astonish'd 

at it as much as myself. Twelve sous ! said 

one A twelve-sous piece ! said the other — and 

made no reply. 



265 

The poor man said he knew not how to ask 
less of ladies of their rank ; and bow'd down his 
head to the ground. 

Poo ! said they we have no money. 

The beggar remained silent for a moment or 
two, and renewed his supplication. 

Do not, my fair young ladies, said he, stop 
your ears against me — Upon my word, honest 
man ! said the younger, we have no change — Then 
God bless you, said the poor man, and multiply 
those joys which you can give to others without 
change ! — I observed the elder sister put her hand 
into her pocket — I'll see, said she, if I have a 
sous ! — A sous ! give twelve, said the supplicant : 
Nature has been bountiful to you, be bountiful to 
a poor man. 

I would, friend, with all my heart, said the 
younger, if I had it. 

My fair charitable ! said he, addressing himself 
to the elder — What is it but your goodness and 
humanity which makes your bright eyes so sweet, 
that they outshine the morning even in this dark 
passage ? and what was it which made the Mar- 
quis de Santerre and his brother say so much of 
you both as they pass'd by ? 

The two ladies seemed much affected ; and im- 
pulsively at the same time they both put their 
hands into their pocket, and each took out a 
twelve-sous piece. 

The contest betwixt them and the poor suppli- 
cant was no more — it was continued betwixt them- 
selves, which of the swo should give the twelve- 
sous piece in charity and, to end the dispute, 

Y 



266 

they both gave it together, and the man went 
away. sent, journey, p. 206. 



MISFORTUNE AND CONSOLATION. 

THERE is not an object in this world 
which God can be supposed to look down upon 
with greater pleasure, than that of a good man in- 
volved in misfortunes, surrounded on all sides with 
difficulties — yet cheerfully bearing up his head, 
and struggling against them with firmness and 
constancy of mind. — Certainly, to our concep- 
tions, such objects must be truly engaging :— and 
the reason of so exalted an encomium from this 
hand, is easily to be guessed : no doubt the 
wisest of the heathen philosophers had found, from 
observation upon the life of man, that the many 
troubles and infirmities of his nature, the sickness- 
es, disappointments, sorrows for the loss of chil- 
dren or property, with the numberless other calam- 
ities and cross accidents to which the life of man 

is subject, were in themselves so great, and so 

little solid comfort to be administered from the 
mere refinements of philosophy in such emerg- 
encies, that there was no virtue which required 
greater efforts, or which was found so difficult to 

be achieved upon moral principles which had 

no foundation to sustain this great weight, which 
the infirmities of our nature laid upon it. And 
for this reason, 'tis observable, that there is no 
subject, upon which the moral writers of antiquity 



267 

have exhausted so much of their eloquence, or 
where they have spent so much time and pains, as 
in this of endeavouring to reconcile men to these 
evils. Insomuch, that from thence, in most mod- 
ern languages, the patient enduring of affliction, 
has by degrees obtained the name of philosophy, 
and almost monopolized the word to itself, as if 
it were the chief end or compendium of all the 
wisdom which philosophy had to offer. And, in- 
deed, considering what lights they had, some of 
them wrote extremely well ; yet, as what they 
said proceeded. more from the head than the heart, 
'twas generally more calculated to silence a man 
in his troubles, than to convince and teach him 
how to bear them. And therefore, however sub- 
tile and ingenious their arguments might appear 
in the reading, 'tis to be feared they lost much of 
their efficacy, when tried in the application. If a 
man were thrust back in the world by disappoint- 
ments, or — as was Job's case — had suffered a sud- 
den change in his fortunes, from an affluent condi- 
tion were brought down by a train of cruel acci- 
dents, and pinched with poverty — philosophy 
would come in, and exhort him to stand his 
ground ; — it would tell him, that the same great- 
ness and strength of mind which enabled him to 
behave well in the days of his prosperity, should 
equally enable him to behave well in the days of 
his adversity : — that it was the property only of 
weak and base spirits, who were insolent in the 
one, to be dejected and overthrown by the other ; 
whereas great and generous souls were at all times 
calm and equal.— As they enjoyed the advantages 



268 

of life with indifference, — they were able to resign 
them with the same temper, — and consequently — 
were out of the reach of fortune. All which, 
however fine, and likely to satisfy the fancy of a 
man at ease, could convey but little consolation to 
a heart already pierced with sorrow ; — nor is it to 
be conceived how an unfortunate creature should 
any more receive relief from such a lecture, how- 
ever just, than a man racked with an acute fit of 
the gout or stone, could be supposed to be set 
free from torture, by hearing from his physician a 
nice dissertation upon his case. The philosophic 
consolations in sickness, or in afflictions for the 
death of friends and kindred, were just as effica- 
cious ; — and were rather in general to be consid- 
ered as good sayings than good remedies. — So 
that, if a man were bereaved of a promising child, 
in whom all his hopes and expectations centered, — 
or a wife were left destitute to mourn the loss and 
protection of a kind and tender husband, Seneca or 
Epicteius would tell the pensive parent and discon- 
solate widow — that tears and lamentation for the 
dead were fruitless and absurd ; that to die was 
the necessary and unavoidable debt of nature ; — 
and as it could admit of no remedy, — 'twas impi- 
ous and foolish to grieve and fret themselves upon it. 
Upon such sage counsel, as well as many other 
lessons of the same stamp, the same reflection 
might be applied, which is said to have been made 
by one of the Roman emperors, to one who ad- 
ministered the same consolations to him, on a like 
occasion, — to whom, advising him to be comfort- 
ed, and make himself easy, since the event had 



269 

been brought about by a fatality, and could not 
be helped, — he replied, " That this was so far 
from lessening his trouble, — that it was the very 
circumstance which occasioned it." — So that upon 
the whole — when the true value of these, and 
many more of their current arguments, have been 
weighed and brought to the test, — one is led to 
doubt, whether the greatest part of their heroes, 
the most renowned for constancy, were not much 
more indebted to good nerves and spirits, or the 
natural happy frame of their tempers, for behaving 
well, than to any extraordinary helps, which they 
could be supposed to receive from their instruct- 
ors. And therefore I should make no scruple to 
assert, that one such instance of patience and re- 
signation as this, which the Scripture gives us in 
the person of Job, not of one most pompously 
declaiming upon the contempt of pain and pov- 
erty, but of a man sunk in the lowest condition of 
humanity, to behold him when stripped of his 
estate, his wealth, his friends, his children — cheer- 
fully holding up his head, and entertaining his hard 
fortune with firmness and serenity ; — and this, not 
from a stoical stupidity, but a just sense of God's 
providence, and a persuasion of his justice and 
goodness in all his dealings — such an example, I 
as this, is of more universal use, speaks truer 
to the heart, than all the heroic precepts which 
She pedantry of philosophy has to offer. 

SERMON XV. P. 7* 



Y 2 



270 

SERMON V.— THE CASE OF ELIJAH 
AND THE WIDOW OF ZAREPHATH 
CONSIDERED. 

I KINGS, XVII. 16. 

An d the barrel of meal wasted not, neither did the 
cruse of oil fail, according to the word of the Lord 
which he spake by the prophet Elijah, 

THE words of the text are the record of 
a miracle wrought in behalf of the widow of Za- 
rephath, who had charitably taken Elijah under 
her roof, and administered unto him in a time of 
great scarcity and distress. There is something 
very interesting and affectionate in the manner this 
story is related in holy writ : and as it concludes 
with a second still more remarkable proof of God's 
favour to the same person, in the restoration of her 
dead son to life, one cannot but consider both 
miracles as rewards of that act of piety, wrought 
by infinite power, and left upon record in Scrip- 
ture, not merely as testimonies of the prophet's 
divine mission, but likewise as two encouraging 
instances of God Almighty's blessing upon works 
of charity and benevolence. 

In this view I have made choice of this piece of 
sacred history, which I shall beg leave to make 
use of as the ground-work for an exhortation to 
charity in general : and that it may better an- 
swer the particular purpose of this solemnity, I 
will endeavour to enlarge upon it with such reflec- 
tions, as, I trust in God, will excite some senti- 



271 

ments of compassion which may be profitable to so 
pious a design. 

Elijah had fled from two dreadful evils, the ap- 
proach of a famine, and the persecution of Ahab, 
an enraged enemy : and, in obedience to the com- 
mand of God, had hid himself by the brook of 
Gherith, that is before Jordan. In this safe and 
peaceful solitude, blessed with daily marks of 
God's providence, the holy man dwelt free from 
both the cares and glories of the world : by a 
miraculous impulse the ravens brought him bread and 
Jlesh in the morning, and bread andjlesh in the eve- 
ning, and he drank of the brook ; till by continu- 
ance of drought (the windows of heaven being 
shut up in those days for three years and six 
months, which was the natural cause likewise of 
the famine) it came to pass after a while that the 
brook, the great fountain of his support, dried 
up ; and he is again directed by the word of the 
Lord where to betake himself for shelter. He is 
commanded to arise and go to Zarephath, which 
belonged to Zidon, with an assurance that he had 
disposed the heart of a widow woman there to 
sustain him. 

The prophet follows the call of God : the same 
hand which brought him to the gate of the city, 
had led also the poor widow out of her doors, op- 
pressed with sorrow. She had come forth upon 
a melancholy errand, to make preparation to eat 
her last meal, and share it with her child* 

No doubt she had long fenced against this trag- 
ical event with all the thrifty management which 
sejf-preservation and [parental love could inspire : 



272 

full, no doubt, of cares and many tender appre- 
hensions lest the slender stock should fail them be- 
fore the return of plenty. 

But as she was a widow, having lost the only 
faithful friend, who would best have assisted her 
in her virtuous struggle, the present necessity of 
the times at length overcame her ; and she was 
just falling down an easy prey to it, when Elijah 
came to the place where she was. And he called 
unto her, and said, Fetch me, I pray thee, a little 
water in a vessel, that I may drink. And as she 
was going to fetch it, he called unto her, and said, 
Bring me, I pray thee, a morsel of bread in thine hand. 
And she said, as the Lord thy God liveth, I have 
not a cake, but a handful of meal in a barrel, and a 
little oil in a cruse ; and behold, I am gathering two 
sticks, that I may go in and dress it for me and my 
son, that we may eat it and die. And Elijah said 
unto her, Fear not, but go, and do as thou hast said ; 
but make me thereof a little cake first, and bring it 
unto me, and after make for thee and thy son. For 
thus saith the Lord God of Israel, The barrel of meal 
shall not waste, neither shall the cruse of cilfail, un- 
til the day that the Lord send rain upon the earth. 

True charity is always unwilling to find excus- 
es — else here was a fair opportunity of pleading 
many : she might have insisted over again upon 
her situation, which necessarily tied up her hands 
— she might have urged the unreasonableness of 
the request ; — that she was reduced to the lowest 
extremity already- — and that it was contrary to 
justice and the first law of nature, to rob herself 
and child of their last morsel, and give it to a 
stranger. 



273 

But in generous spirits, compassion is some- 
times more than a balance for self-preservation. 
For, as God certainly interwove that friendly soft- 
ness in our nature to be a check upon too great a 
propensity towards self-love — so it seemed to op- 
erate here. For it is observable, that though the 
prophet backed his request with the promise of 
an immediate recompense in multiplying her 
stock ; yet it is not evident, she was influenced at 
all by that temptation. For if she had, doubtless 
it must have wrought such a mixture of self-inter- 
est into the motive of her compliance, as must 
greatly have allayed the merit of the action. But 
this, I say, does not appear, but rather the con- 
trary, from the reflection she makes upon the 
whole in the last verse of the chapter : Now by 
this I know that thou art a man of God, and that the 
word of the Lord in thy mouth is truth. 

Besides, as she was an inhabitant of Zarephath 
(or, as it is called by St. Luke, Sarepta, subject 
to Zidon, the metropolis of Phoenicia, without 
the bounds of God's people,) she had been 
brought up in gross darkness and idolatry, in utter 
ignorance of the Lord God of Israel : or, if she 
had heard of his name, which is all that seems 
probable, she had been taught to disbelieve the 
mighty wonders of his hand, and was still less 
likely to believe his prophet. 

Moreover, she might argue, If this man by 
some secret mystery of his own, or through the 
power of his God, be able to procure so preter- 
natural a supply for me, whence comes it to pass, 
that he now stands in want himself, oppressed both 
with hunger and thirst. 



27^ 

It appears, therefore, that she must have been 
wrought upon by an unmix'd principle of human- 
ity. — She look'd upon him as a fellow-partner al- 
most in the same affliction with herself.— — She 
considered he had come a weary pilgrimage, in a 
sultry climate, through an exhausted country ; 
where neither bread or water were to be had, but 
by acts of liberality. — That he had come an un- 
known traveller, and as a hard heart never wants 
pretence, that this circumstance, which should 
rather have befriended, might have helped to op* 

press him. She considered, for charity is ever 

fruitful in kind reasons, that he was now far from 
his own country, and had strayed out of the reach 
of the tender offices of some one who affection- 
ately mourned his absence — her heart was touched 
with pity. — She turned in silence, and went and 
did according as he said. And behold, both she, and 
he, and her house, did eat many days ; or, as in the 
margin, one whole year. And the barrel of meal 
• wasted not, neither did the cruse of oil fail, until the 
day that God sent rain upon the earth. 

Though it may not seem necessary to raise con- 
jectures here upon this event, yet it is natural to 
suppose, the danger of the famine being thus unex- 
pectedly got over, that the mother began to look 
hopefully forwards for the rest of her days. There 
were many widows in Israel at that time, when 
the heavens were shut up for three years and six 
months, yet, as St. Luke observes, to none of them 
was the prophet sent, save to this widow of Sarepta : 
in all likelihood, she would not be the last in 
making the same observation, and drawing from it 



275 

some flattering conclusion in favour of her son. — * 
Many a parent would build high upon a worse 

foundation. " Since the God of Israel has 

thus sent^iis own messenger to us in our distress, 
to pass by so many houses of his own people, and 
stop at mine, to save it in so miraculous a manner 
from destruction ; doubtless, this is but an earnest 
of his future kind intentions to us : at least his 
goodness has decreed to comfort my old age by 
the long life and health of my son : — but perhaps, 
he has something greater still in store for him, 
and 1 shall live to see the same hand hereafter 
crown his head with glory and honour." We 
may naturally suppose her innocently carried 
away with such thoughts, when she is called back 
by an unexpected distemper which seizes her son, 
and in one moment brings down all her hopes— 
for his sickness <was so sore that there was no breath 
left in him, — 

The expostulations of immoderate grief are sel- 
3om just. For, though Elijah had already pre- 
served her son, as well as herself, from immediate 
death, and was the last cause to be suspected of 
so sad an accident, yet the passionate mother in 
the first transport challenges him as the author of 

her misfortune ; and as if he had brought 

down sorrow upon a house which had so hospita- 
bly sheltered him. The prophet was too full of 
compassion to make reply to so unkind an accu- 
sation. He takes the dead child out of his mother' s 
bosom, and laid him upon his own bed ; and he cried 
u-iio the Lord, and said, Lord my God y hast thou 
hro'^ht evil upon the widow with whom I sojourn* 



276 

by slaying her son P " Is this the reward of all her 
charity and goodness ? Thou hast before this 
robbed her of the dear partner of all her joys and 
all her cares ; and now that she is a widow, and 
has most reason to expect thy protection, behold 
thou hast withdrawn her last prop : thou hast 
taken away her child, the only stay she had to 

rest on." And Elijah cried unto God, and said, 

Lord my God, I pray thee let this child 7 s soul 
come into him again. 

The prayer was urgent, and bespoke the dis- 
tress of a humane mind deeply suffering in the 

misfortunes of another ; moreover his heart 

was rent with other passions He was zealous 

for the name and honour of his God, and thought 
not only his omnipotence, but his glorious attri- 
bute of mercy, concerned in the event : for oh ! 
with what triumph would the prophet retort his 
own bitter taunt, and say, his God <was either talk- 
ing, or he was pursuing, or <was in a journey ; or 
per adventure he slept and should have been awaked ! 

He was moreover involved in the success of 

his prayer himself ; honest minds are most 

hurt by scandal. — And he was afraid, lest so foul 
a one, so unworthy of his character, might arise 
among the heathen, who would report with pleas- 
ure, " Lo ! the widow of Zarephath took the 
messenger of the God of Israel under her roof, 
and kindly entertained him, and see how she is re- 
warded ; surely the prophet was ungrateful, he 
wanted power, or, what is worse, he wanted pity." 

Besides all this, he pleaded not the cause of the 
widow ; it was the cause of charity itself, whick 



277 

had received a deep wound already, and would 
suffer still more should God deny it this testimo- 
ny of his favour. So the Lord hearkened unto the 
voice of Elijah, and the soul of the child came unto 
him again, and he revived. And Elijah took the 
child, and brought him down out of the chamber into 
the house, and delivered him unto his mother ; and 
Elijah said, See thy son liveth. 

It would be a pleasure to a good mind to stop 
here a moment, and figure to itself the picture of 

so joyful an event. To behold on one hand the 

raptures of the parent, overcome with surprise and 
gratitude, and imagine how a sudden stroke of 
such impetuous joy must operate on a despairing 
countenance, long accustomed to sadness. — To 
conceive, on the other side of the piece, the holy 

man approaching with the child in his arms 

full of honest triumph in his looks, but sweetened 
with all the kind sympathy which a gentle nature 
could overflow with upon so happy an event. It 
is a subject one might recommend to the pencil of 
a great genius, and would even afford matter for 
description here ; but that it would lead us' too 
far from the particular purpose, for which I have 
enlarged upon thus much of the story already ; 
the chief design of which is, to illustrate by a 
fa£t, what is evident both in reason and Scripture, 
that a charitable and good action is seldom cast 
away, but that even in this life it is more than 
probable, that what is so scattered shall be gath- 
ered again with increase. Cast thy bread upon the 
waters, and thou shalt find it after many days. Be 
as a father unto the fatherless, and instead of an 
Z 



278 

husband unto their mother ; so shalt thou be as a sdn 
of the Most High, and he will love thee more than 
thy mother doth. Be mindful of good turns, for thou 
hnowest ?iot what evil shall come upon the earth / and 
when thou fallest thou shalt find a stay. It shall 
preserve thee from all affliction, and fight for thee 
against thy enemies, better than a mighty shield and a 
strong spear. 

The great instability of temporal affairs, and 
constant fluctuation of every thing in this world, 
afford perpetual occasions of taking refuge in such 
a security. 

What by successive misfortunes ; by failings 
and cross accidents in trade ; by miscarriage of 
projects : — what by unsuitable expenses of pa- 
rents, extravagances of children, and the many 
other secret ways whereby riches make themselves 
wings and fly away ; so many surprising revolu- 
tions do every day happen in families, that it may 
not seem strange to say, that the posterity of 
some of the most liberal contributors here, in the 
changes #vhich one century may produce, may 
possibly find shelter under this very plant which 
now they so kindly water. Nay^ so quickly 
sometimes has the wheel turned round, that many 
a man has lived to enjoy the benefit of that chari- 
ty which his own piety projected. 

But besides this, and. exclusive of the right 
which God's promise gives it to protection here- 
after, chanty and benevolence, in the ordinary 
chain of effects, have a natural and more immedi- 
ate tendency in themselves to rescue a man from 
the accidents of the world, by softening the hearts, 



279 

and winning every man's wishes to its interest* 
When a compassionate man falls who would not 
pity him ? who that had power to do it, would 
not befriend and raise him up ? or could the most 
barbarous temper offer an insult to his distress 
without pain and reluctance : so that it is almost 
a wonder that covetousness, even in spite of itself, 
does not sometimes argue a man into charity, by 
its own principle of looking forwards, and the 
firm expectation it would delight in of receiving 
its own again with usury. — So evident is it in the 
course of God's providence and the natural stream 
of things, that a good office one time or other 

generally meets with a reward- -Generally, did 

I say ? — how can it ever fail r — when besides all 
this, so large a share of the recompense is so in- 
separable even from the action itself. — Ask the 
man who has a tear of tenderness always ready to 
shed over the unfortunate ; who, withal, is ready 
to distribute and willing to communicate : ask 
him, if the best things, which wits have said of 
pleasure, have expressed what he has felt, when, 
by a seasonable kindness, he has made the heart of 
the widow sing for joy P Mark then the expressions 
of unutterable pleasure and harmony in his looks ; 
and say, whether Solomon has not fixed the point 
of true enjoyment in the right place, when he de- 
clares, " that he knew no good there was in any 
of the riches or honours of this world, but for a 
man to do good with them in his life." Nor was it 
without reason he made this judgment. -Doubt- 
less he had found and seen the insufficiency of all 
sensual pleasures ; how unable to furnish either a 



280 

rational or a lasting scheme of happiness : how 
soon the best of them vanished : the less excep- 
tionable in vanity, but the guilty both hi vanity 
and vexation of spirit. But that this was of so 
pure and refined a nature, it burned without con- 
suming ; it was figuratively the widow's barrel of 
meal 'which wasted not, and cruse of oil which never 
failed. 

It is not an easy matter to add weight to the 
testimony of the wisest man, upon the pleasure of 
doing good ; or else the evidence of the philoso- 
pher Epicurus is very remarkable, whose word in 
this matter is the more to be trusted, because a 
professed sensualist ; who, amidst all the delica- 
cies and improvements of pleasure which a luxuri- 
ant fancy might strike out, still maintained that 
the best way of enlarging human happiness Avas, 
by a communication of it to others. 

And if it were necessary here, or there were 
time to refine upon this doctrine, one might far- 
ther maintain, exclusive of the happiness which 
the mind itself feels in the exercise of this virtue, 
that the body of man is never in a better state 
than when he is most inclined to do good offices : 
— that as nothing more contributes to health than 
a benevolence of temper, so nothing generally is a 
stronger indication of it. 

And what seems to confirm this opinion, is an 
observation, the truth of which must be submitted 
to every one's reflection — namely — that a disin- 
clination and backwardness to do good, is often 
attended if not produced, by an indisposition of 
the animal as well as rational part of us ; So 



281 

naturally do the soul and body, as in other cases 
so in this, mutually befriend, or prey upon each 
other. An£ indeed, setting aside all abstruser 
reasoning upon the point, I cannot conceive but 
that the very mechanical motions which maintain life 
must be performed with more equal vigour and 
freedom in that man whom a great and good soul 
perpetually inclines to shew mercy to the misera- 
ble, than they can be in a poor,, sordid, selfish 
wretch, whose little contracted heart melts at no 
man's afflictions ; but sits brooding so intently 
over its own plots and concerns, as to see and feel 
nothing ; and in truth enjoy nothing beyond him- 
self : and of whom one may say what that great 
master of nature has, speaking of a natural sense 
of harmony, which I think with more justice may 
be said of compassion, that the man who had it 
not, — 

— Was fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils : 
The motions of his spirits are dull as night ; 
And his affections dark as Efebus : 
Let no such man be trusted. 

What divines say of the mind, naturalists have 
observed of the body ; that there is no passion so 
natural to it as love, which is the principle of do- 
ing good ; — and though instances, like this just 
mentioned, seem far from being proofs of it, yet 
it is not to be doubted but that every hard-heart- 
ed man has felt muck inward opposition before he 
could prevail upon himself to do aught to fix and 
deserve the character : and what we say of long 
habits of vice, that they are hard to be subdued, 
may with equal truth be said concerning the nat- 
Z2 



282 

ural impressions of benevolence, that a man must 
do much violence to himself, and suffer many a 
painful struggle, before he can tear away so great 
and noble a part of his nature. — Of this, antiquity 
has preserved a beautiful instance in an anecdote 
of Alexander, the tyrant of Pheres, who, though 
he had so industriously hardened his heart, as to 
seem to take delight in cruelty, insomuch as to 
murder many of his subjects every day, without 
cause and without pity ; yet, at the bare repre- 
sentation of a tragedy, which related the misfor- 
tunes of Hecuba and Andromache, he was so 
touched with the fictitious distress which the poet 
had wrought up in . it, that he burst out into a 
flood of tears. The explication of which incon- 
sistency is easy, and casts as great a lustre upon 
human nature, as the man himself was a disgrace 
to it. The case seems to have been this : in real 
life he had been blinded with passions, and thought- 
lessly hurried on by interest or resentment : — but 
here, there was no room for motives of that kind ; 
so that his attention being first caught hold of, 
and all his vices laid asleep ; — then Nature 
awoke in triumph, and shewed how deeply she had 
sown the seeds of compassion in every man's 
breast ; when tyrants, with vices the most at en- 
mity with it, were not able entirely to root it out. 
But this is painting an amiable virtue, and set- 
ting her off with shades which wickedness lends 
us, when one might safely trust to the force of 
her own natural charms, and ask, Whether any 
thing under heaven, in its own nature, is more 
y and engaging ? ^ ■ ■ To illustrate this the 



283 

more, let us turn our thoughts within ourselves, 
and for a moment let any number of us here im- 
agine ourselves at this instant engaged in drawing 
the most perfect and amiable character, such as, 
according to our conceptions of the Deity, we 
should think most acceptable to him, and most 
likely to be universally admired by all mankind. — 
I appeal to your own thoughts, whether the first 
idea which offered itself to most of our imagina- 
tions would not be that of a compassionate bene- 
factor, stretching forth his hands to raise up the 
helpless orphan ? Whatever other virtues we 
should give our hero, we should all agree in mak- 
ing him a generous friend, who thought the op- 
portunities of doing good to be the only charm of 
his prosperity : we should paint him like the 
psalmist's river of God, overflowing the thirsty 
parts of the earth, that he might enrich them, car- 
rying plenty and gladness along with him. If 
this were not sufficient, and we were still desirous 
of adding a farther degree of perfection to so 
great a character ; we should endeavour to think 
of some one, if human nature could furnish such a 
pattern, who, if occasion required, was willing to 
undergo all kinds of affliction, to sacrifice himself, 
to forget his dearest interests, and even lay down 
his life for the good of mankind. — And here, — O 
merciful Saviour ! how would the bright orig- 
inal of thy unbounded goodness break in upon 
our hearts ! Thou who becamest poor, that we might 

l-e rich— though Lord of all this world, yet 

hadst not where to lay thy head — and though equal 
>wer and glory to the great God of Nature, 



28£ 

yet madest thyself of no reputation, tookest upon thee 
the form of a servant submitting thyself, with- 
out opening thy mouth, to all the indignities 
which a thankless and undiscerning people could 
offer : and at length, to accomplish our salvation, 
becamest obedient unto death, suffering thyself, as on 
this day*, to be led like a lamb to the slaughter. 

The consideration of this stupendous instance 
of compassion in the Son of God, is the most un- 
answerable appeal that can be made to the heart 

of man, for the reasonableness of it in himself. 

It is the great argument which the Apostles use 
in almost all their exhortations to good works — 
Beloved, if Christ so loved us— the inference is un- 
avoidable ; and gives strength and beauty to every 
thing else which can be urged upon the subject. 
And therefore I have reserved it for my last and 
warmest appeal, with which I would gladly finish 
this discourse, that at least for their sakes for whom 
it is preached, we might be left to the full impres- 
sion of so exalted and so seasonable a motive. — 
That by reflecting upon the infinite labour of this 
day's love, in the instance of Christ's death, we 
may consider what an immense debt we owe each 
other ; and by calling to mind the amiable pattern 
of his life, in doing good, we might learn in what 
manner we may best discharge it. 

And, indeed, of all the methods in which a good 
mind would be willing to do it, I believe there can 
be none more beneficial, or comprehensive in its 
effects, than that for which we are here met to- 

* Preached on Good-Friday. 



285 

gether — The proper education of poor children 
being the ground-work of almost every other kind 
of charity, as that which makes every other subse- 
quent act of it answer the pious expectation of 
the giver. 

Without this foundation first laid, how much 
kindness in the progress of a benevolent man's life 
is unavoidably cast away ! and sometimes where it 
is as senseless as the exposing a tender plant to all 
the inclemencies of a cruel season, and then going 
with sorrow to take it in, when the root is already 
dead. I said, therefore, this was the foundation 
of almost every kind of charity, — and might one 
not have added, of all the policy too ? since the 
many ill consequences which attend the want of it, 
though grievously felt by the parties themselves, 
are no less so by the community of which they are 
members ; and moreover, of all mischiefs seem the 
hardest to be redressed — Insomuch, that when one 
considers the disloyal seductions of poverty on one 
hand, and on the other, that no bad man, whatev- 
er he professes, can be a good subject, one may 
venture to say, it had been cheaper and better for 
the nation to have borne the expense of instilling 
sound principles and good morals into the neglect- 
ed children of the lower sort, especially in some 
parts of Great-Britain, than to be obliged, so often 
as we have been within this last century, to rise up 
and arm ourselves against the rebellious effects 
which the want of them has brought down even to 
our doors. And, in fact, if we are to trust anti- 
quity, the truth of which in this case we have no 
reason to dispute, this matter has been looked up* 



286 

on of such vast importance to the civil happiness 
and peace of a people, that some commonwealths, 
the most eminent for political wisdom, have chos- 
en to make a public concern of it ; thinking it 
much safer to be intrusted to the prudence of the 
magistrate, than to the mistaken tenderness, or 
natural partiality, of the parent. 

It was consistent with this, and bespoke a very 
refined sense of policy in the Lacedaemonians 
(though by the way, I believe, different from what 
more modern politics would have directed in like 
circumstances,) when Antipater demanded of them 
fifty children, as hostages for the security of a 
distant engagement, they made this brave and 
wise answer, " they would not — they could not 
consent : they would rather give him double the 
number of their best grown up men."— Intimating, 
that, however they were distressed, they would 
choose any inconvenience rather than suffer the 
loss of their country's education ; and the oppor- 
tunity (which if once lost can never be regain- 
ed) of giving their youth an early tine ure of relig- 
ion, and bringing them up to a love of industry, 
and a love of the laws and constitution of their 
country. If this shews the great importance of a 
proper education to children of all ranks and con- 
ditions, what shall we say then of those whom the 
providence of God has placed in the very lowest 
lot of life, utterly cast out of the way of knowl- 
edge, without a parent, — sometimes, may be, with- 
out a friend to guide and instruct them, but what 
common pity and the necessity of their sad situa- 
tion engage : where the dangers which sur- 



287 

round them on every side are so great and many, 
that for one fortunate passenger in life, who makes 
way well in the world with such early disadvan- 
tages, and so dismal a setting out, we may reckon 
thousands, who every day suffer shipwreck, and 
are lost for ever. 

If there is a case under heaven which calls out 
aloud for the more immediate exercise of compas- 
sion, and which may be looked upon as the com- 
pendium of all charity, surely it is this : and I am 
persuaded there would want nothing more to con- 
vince the greatest enemy to these kind of chari- 
ties that it is so, but a bare opportunity of taking 
a nearer view of some of the more distressful ob- 
jects of it. 

Let him go into the dwellings of the unfortu- 
nate, into some mournful cottage, where poverty 
and- affliction reign together. There let him be- 
hold the disconsolate widow — sitting — steeped in 
tears ; — thus sorrowing over the infant she knows 
not how to succour. — " O my child, thou art 
now left exposed to a wide and vicious world, too 
full of snares and temptations for thy tender and 
unpractised age. Perhaps a parent's love may 
magnify those dangers — But when I consider thou 
art driven out naked into the midst of them with- 
out friends, without fortune, without instruction, 
my heart bleeds beforehand for the evils which 
may come upon thee. God, in whom we trusted,* 
is witness, so low had his providence placed us, 
that we never indulged one wish to have made thee 
rich ; — virtuous we would have made thee ; for 
thy father, my husband, was a good man, and feared 



288 

the Lord, and though all the fruits of his care 

and industry were little enough for our support, 
yet he honestly had determined to have spared 
some portion of it, scanty as it was, to have placed 
thee in safety, in the way of knowledge and instruc- 
tion — But alas ! he is gone from us, never to re- 
turn more, and with him are fled the means of do- 
ing it : — — For, behold the creditor is come upon us, 

to take all that we have." Grief is eloquent, 

and will not easily be imitated. — But let the man, 
who is the least friend to distresses of this nature, 
conceive some disconsolate widow uttering her 
complaint even in this manner, and let him consid- 
er, if there be any sorrow like this sorrow, 'wherewith 
the Lord has afflicted her ! or whether there can 
be any charity like that, of taking the child out of 
the mother's bosom, and rescuing her from these ap- 
prehensions ? Should a heathen, a stranger to our 
holy religion and the love it taught, should he, as 
he journeyed, come to the place where she lay, when he 
saw, would not he have compassion on her ? God 
forbid a Christian should this day want it ! or at 
any time look upon such a distress, and pass by on 
the other side. 

Rather let him do, as his Saviour taught him, 
bind up the wounds, and pour comfort into the heart 
of one whom the hand of God has so bruised. 
Let him practise what it is, with Elijah's trans- 
•port, to say to the afflicted widow, See, thy son 
liveih /- — liveth by my charity, and the bounty of 
this tiour, to all the purposes which makes life 
desirable,— to be made a good man and a profit- 
able subject : on one hand to be trained up to 



289 

such a sense of his duty, as may secure him an in- 
terest in the world to come : and with regard to 
this world, to be so brought up in it to a love of 
honest labour and industry, as all his life long to 
earn and eat his bread with joy and thankfulness. 
" Much peace and happiness rest upon the 
head and heart of every one who thus brings 

children to Christ ! May the blessing of 

him that was ready to perish come seasonably 
upon him !— The Lord comfort him, when he 
most wants it, when he lies upon his bed ! make 
thou, O God ! all his bed in his sickness ; and 
for what he now scatters, give him, then, that 
peace of thine which passeth all understanding, 
and which nothing in this world can either give 
or take away." Amen. 



SERMON XLIV. THE WAYS OF PROVI- 
DENCE JUSTIFIED TO MAN. 

PSALM LXXIII. 12, 13. 

Behold these are the ungodly who prosper in the world, 
they increase in riches. 

Verily I have cleansed my heart in vain, and washed 
my hands in innocency. 

THIS complaint of the Psalmist's con- 
cerning the promiscuous distribution of God's 
blessings to the just and unjust, — that the sun 
should shine without distinction upon the good 

Aa 



290 

and the bad, — and rains descend upon the righ- 
teous and unrighteous man,-— is a subject that has 
afforded much matter for inquiry, and at one time 
or other has raised doubts to dishearten and per- 
plex the minds of men. If the sovereign Lord of 
all the earth does look on, whence so much disor- 
der in the face of things ? — why is it permitted, 
that wise and good men should be left often a 
prey to so many miseries and distresses of life, — 
whilst the guilty and foolish triumph in their of- 
fences, and even the tabernacles of robbers prosper ? 

To this it is answered,— that therefore there is 
a future state of rewards and punishments to take 
place after this life, — wherein all these inequalities 
shall be made even, where the circumstances of 
every man's case shall be considered, and where 
God shall be justified in all his ways, and every 
mouth shall be stopt. 

If this was not so, if the ungodly were to pros- 
per in the world, and have riches in possession, — 
and no distinction to be made hereafter, — to what 
purpose would it have been to have maintained 
our integrity ? — Lo ! then, indeed, should I have 
cleansed my heart in vain, and washed my hands 
in innocency. 

It is farther said, and what is a more direct an- 
swer to the point, — that when God created man, 
that he might make him capable of receiving hap- 
piness at his hands hereafter, — he endowed him 
with liberty and freedom of choice, without which 
he could not have been a creature accountable for 

his actions ^ -that it is merely from the bad use 

he makes of these gifts, — that all those instances 



291 

of irregularity do result, upon which the com- 
plaint is here grounded, — which could no ways 
be prevented, but by the total subversion of hu- 
man liberty ; — that should God make bare his 
arm, and interpose on every injustice that is com- 
mitted, — mankind might be said to do what was 
rights — but, at the same time, to lose the merit of 
it, since they would act under force and necessity, 
and not from the determinations of their own 
mind ; — that, upon this supposition,— a man 
could with no more reason expect to go to heaven 
for acts of temperance, justice, and humanity, 
than for the ordinary impulses of hunger and 
thirst, which nature directed — that God has dealt 
with man upon better terms ; — he has first en- 
dowed him with liberty and free-will ; he has 

set life and death, good and evil before him ; — 
that he has given him faculties to find out what 
will be the consequences of either way or acting, 
and then left him to take which course his reason 
and direction shall point out. 

I shall desist from enlarging any further upon 
either of the foregoing arguments in vindication 
of God's providence, which are urged so often 
with so much force and conviction, as to leave no 
room for a reasonable reply ; — since the miseries 
which befal the good, and the seeming happiness 
of the wicked, could not be otherwise in such a 
free state and condition as this in which we are 
placed. 

In all charges of this kind, we generally take 
two things for granted; — 1st, That in the in- 
stances we give, we know certainly the good from 



292 

the bad ; and, 2dly, The respective state of 

their enjoyments or sufferings. 

I shall therefore, in the remaining part of my 
discourse, take up your time with a short inquiry 
into the difficulties of coming not only at the true 
characters of men, — but likewise of knowing 
either the degrees of their real happiness, or mis- 
ery $ in this life. 

The first of these will teach us candour in our 
judgments of others, —the second, to which I shall 
confine myself, will teach us humility in our rea- 
sonings upon the ways of God. 

For though the miseries of the good, and the 
prosperity of the wicked, are not in general to be 
denied : — yet I shall endeavour to shew, that the 
particular instances we are apt to produce, when 
we cry out in the words of the Psalmist, Lo ! 
these are the ungodly, — these prosper, and a~re 
happy in the world ; — I say, I shall endeavour 
to shew, that we are so ignorant of the articles 
of the charge,-- and the evidence we go upon to 
make them good is so lame and defective, — as to 
be sufficient by itself to check all propensity to 
expostulate with God's providence, allowing there 
was no other way of clearing up the matter recon- 
cileably to his attributes. 

And, first, — what certain and infallible marks 
have we of the goodness or badness of the bulk of 
mankind ? 

If we trust to fame and reports, — if they are 
good, how do we know but they may proceed 
from partial friendship or flattery ? - -when bad, 
from envy or malice, from ill-natured surmises and 



293 

constructions of things ? and on both sides, from 
small matters aggrandized through mistake, — and 
sometimes through the unskilful relation of even 
truth itself ? — -From some, or all of which causes, 
it happens, that the characters of men, like the 
histories of the Egyptians, are to be received and 
read with caution ; — they are generally dressed 
out and disfigured with so many dreams and 
fables, that every ordinary reader shall not be 
able to distinguish truth from falsehood. — But 
allowing these reflections to be too severe in this 
matter, — -that no such thing as envy ever lessened 
a man's character, or malice blackened it : — yet 
the characters of men are not easily penetrated, 
as they depend often upon the retired, unseen 
parts of a man's life. — The best and truest piety 
is most secret, and the worst of actions, for differ- 
ent reasons, will be so too.— Some men are 
modest, and seem to take pains to hide their vir- 
tues ; and, from a natural distance and reserve in 
their tempers, scarce suffer their good qualities to 
be known : — others, on the contrary , put in prac- 
tice a thousand little arts to counterfeit virtues 
which they have not, — the better to conceal 
those vices they really have ; — and this under 
fair shows of sanctity, good-nature, generosity, or 
some virtue or other, — too specious to be seen 
through, — too amiable and disinterested to be sus- 
pected. — These hints may be sufficient to shew 
how hard it is to come at the matter of fact : — 
but one may go a step further, — and say, that 
even that, in many cases, could we come to the 
knowledge of it, is not sufficient by itself to pro- 
A a2 



294 

nounce a man either good or bad, — There are 
numbers of circumstances which attend every 
action; of a man's life, which can never come to 
the knowledge of the world,- — yet ought to be 
known 1 , and well weighed, before sentence with 
any justice can be passed upon him.- — — A man 
may have different views, and a different sense of 
things from what his judges have, and what he 
understands and feels, and what passes with him, 
may be a secret treasured up deeply there for ever. 
— A man, through bodily infirmity, or some com- 
plexional defect, which perhaps is not in his power 
to correct,— may be subject to inadvertencies, — -' 
to starts, — and unhappy turns of temper ; he may 
lie open to snares he is not always aware of ; or, 
through ignorance and want of information and 
proper helps, he may labour in the dark :- — in all 
which cases he may do many things which are 
wrong in themselves, and yet be innocent ; — at 
least an object rather to be pitied than censured 

with severity and ill-will. These are difficulties 

which stand in every one's way in the forming a 

judgment of the characters of others. But, for 

once, let us suppose them all to be got over, so 
that we could see the bottom of every man's 
heart ; — -let us allow that the word rogue, or 
honest man, was wrote so legibly in every man's 
face, that no one could possibly mistake it ; — -yet 
still the happiness of both the one and the other, 
which is the only fact that can bring the charge 
home, is what we have so little certain knowledge 

of, that, bating some flagrant instances, 

whenever we venture to pronounce upon it, ou/v 



295 

decisions are little more than random guesses. — — - 
For who can search the heart of man ! — —it is 
treacherous even to ourselves, and much more like- 
ly to impose upon others. — Even in laughter (if 
you will believe Solomon ) the heart is sorrowful ; 

the mind sits drooping, whilst the countenance is 

gay :■ — and even he who is the object of envy to 
those who look no further than the surface of his 
estate, — may appear at the same time worthy of 
compassion to those who know his private recesses. 
— Besides this, a man's unhappiness is not to be 
ascertained so much from what is known to have 

befallen him, -as from his particular turn and 

cast of mind, and capacity of bearing it. - 

Poverty, exile, loss of fame or friends, the death 
of children, the dearest of all pledges of a man's 
happiness, make not equal impressions upon every 
temper. — You will see one man undergo, with 
scarce the expense of a sigh, — what another, in 
the bitterness of his soul, would go mourning for 
all his life long : — nay, a hasty word, or an un- 
kind look, to a soft and tender nature, will strike 
deeper than a sword to the hardened and senseless. 
—If these reflections hold true with regard to 
misfortunes, they are the same with regard to en- 
joyments : — we are formed differently, — -have dif- 
ferent tastes and perceptions of things ; — by the 
force of habit, education, or a particular cast of 
mind, — it happens that neither the use or possess- 
ion of the same enjoyment and advantages, pro- 
duce the same happiness and contentment ; but 
that it differs in every man almost according to his 
temper and complexion :— so that the self-same 



296 

1 

happy accidents in life, which shall give raptures 
to the choleric or sanguine man, shall be received 
with indifference by the cold and phlegmatic ; — 
a«fd so oddly perplexed are the accounts of both 
human happiness and misery in this world, — that 
trifles, light as air, shall be able to make the hearts 
of some men sing for joy ; — at the same time that 
others, with real blessings and advantages, with- 
out the power of using them, have their hearts 
heavy and discontented. 

Alas ! if the principles of contentment are not' 
within us, the height of station and worldly gran- 
deur will as soon add a cubit to a man's stature as 
to his happiness. 

This will suggest to us how little a way we 
have gone towards the proof of any man's happi- 
ness. -ill barely saying, — Lo ! this man 

prospers in the world, and this man has riches in 
possession. 

When a man has got much above us, we take 
it for granted,— that he sees some glorious pros- 
pects, and feels some mighty pleasures from his 
height ; — whereas, could we get up to him, it is 
great odds whether we should find any thing to 
make us tolerable amends for the pains and trouble 
' of climbing up so high. — — Nothing, perhaps, but 
more dangers and more troubles still ;— and such 
a giddiness of head besides, as to make a wise man 
wish he was well down again upon the level. — To 
calculate, therefore, the happiness of mankind by 
their stations and honours, is the most deceitful of 

all rules ; great, no doubt, is the happiness 

which a moderate fortune, and moderate desires. 



297 

with a consciousness of virtue, will secure a man, 
— Many are the silent pleasures of the honest 
peasant, who rises cheerfully to his labour : — look 

into his dwelling, where the scene of every 

man's happiness chiefly lies ; — he has the same 
domestic endearments,— as much joy and comfort 
in his children, — and as flattering hopes of their 
doing well, to enliven his hours and to glad his 
heart, as you could conceive in the most affluent 
station. — And I make no doubt, in general, but 
if the true account of his joys and sufferings were 
to be balanced with those of his betters, — that the 
upshot would prove to be little more than this, — 
that the rich man had the more meat, — but the 
poor man the better stomach ; — the one had more 
luxury,—- more able physicians to attend and set him 
to rights ; — the other, more health and soundness 
in his bones, and less occasion for their help ; — 
that, after these two articles betwixt them were bal- 
anced, — in all other things they stood upon a level : 
— -that the sun shines as warm, — the air blows as 
fresh, and the earth breathes as fragrant, upon the 
one as the other ; — and that they have an equal 
share in all the beauties and real benefits of nature. 
— These hints may be sufficient to shew what I 
proposed from them, — the difficulties which attend 
us in judging truly either of the happiness or the 
misery of the bulk of mankind, — the evidence 
being still more defective in this case ( as the mat- 
ter of fact is too hard to come at) — than even in 
that of judging of their true characters ; of both 
which, in general, we have such imperfect knowl- 
edge, as will teach us candour in our determina 
tions upon each other. 



298 

But the main purport of this discourse, is, to 
teach us humility in our reasonings upon the ways 
of the Almighty. 

That things are dealt unequally in this world, 
is one of the strongest natural arguments for a 
future state, — and therefore is not to be over- 
thrown ; nevertheless, — I am persuaded the charge 
is far from being as great as at first sight it may 
appear ; — or if it is, — that our views of things are 
so narrow and confined, that it is not in our power 
to make it good. 

But suppose it otherwise, — that the happiness 
and prosperity of bad men w T ere as great as our 
general complaints make them ; — and, what is 
not the case, — that we were able to clear up the 
matter, or answer it reconcileably with God's jus- 
tice and providence, — what shall we infer ? — Why, 

the most becoming conclusion is, that it is one 

instance more, out of many others, of our igno- 
rance : why should this, or any other religious 

difficulty he cannot comprehend, — why should it 
alarm him more than ten thousand other difficul- 
ties which every day elude his most exact and at- 
tentive search ? — Does not the meanest flower in 
the field, or the smallest blade of grass, baffle the 

understanding of the most penetrating mind ? 

Can the deepest inquiries after nature tell us, up- 
on what particular size and motion of parts the 
various colours and tastes of vegetables depend ; 
—why one shrub is laxative, — another restringent ; 
— why arsenic or hellebore should lay waste this 
noble frame of ours, — or opium lock up all the in- 
roads to our senses, — and plunder us, in so merci- 



299 

less a manner, of reason and understanding ? 

Nay, have not the most obvious things, that come 
in our way, dark sides, which the quickest sight 
cannot penetrate into ; and do not the clearest 
and most exalted understandings find themselves 
puzzled, and at a loss, in every particle of matter ? 

Go then,— proud man ! — and when thy head 
turns giddy with opinions of thy own wisdom, 
that thou wouldst correct the measures of the Al- 
mighty, — go then, — take a full view of thyself in 
this glass ; — consider thy own faculties, how nar- 
row and imperfect ; — how much they are cheq- 
uered with truth and falsehood ; — how little arrives 
at thy knowledge, and how darkly and confusedly 

thou discernest even that little as in a glass : 

consider the beginnings and endings of things, the 
greatest and the smallest, how they all conspire to 
baffle thee ; and which way ever thou prose- 
cutest thy inquiries, what fresh subjects of 

amazement,— and what fresh reasons to believe 
there are more yet behind which thou canst never 
comprehend. — Consider,— these ai*e but part of 
his ways ; — how little a portion is heard of him ? 
Canst thou, by searching, find out God ? wouldst 
thou know the Almighty to perfection ? — 'Tis as 
high as heaven, what canst thou do ? — 'tis deeper 
than hell, how canst thou know it ? 

Could we but see the mysterious workings of 
Providence, and were we able to comprehend the 
whole plan of his infinite wisdom and goodness, 
which possibly may be the case in the final con- 
summation of all things ; those events, which we 
are now so perplexed to account for, would prob- 



300 

&bly exalt and magnify his wisdom, and make us 
cry out with the Apostle, in that rapturous ex- 
clamation, — O ! the depth of the riches both of 
the goodness and wisdom of God ! — how un- 
searchable are his ways, and his paths past finding 
out ! 

Now to God, &c. 



THE HISTORY OF A WATCH-COAT. 

" For some time Mr. Sterne lived, in a retired 

manner, upon a small curacy in Yorkshire, and 
probably would have remained in the same ob- 
scurity, if his lively genius had not displayed it- 
self upon an occasion which secured him a 
friend, and paved the way for his promotion. 
A person, who filled a lucrative benefice was not 
satisfied with enjoying it during his own life- 
time, but exerted all his interest to have it en- 
tailed on his wife and son after his decease : 
the gentleman that expected the reversion of 
this post was Mr. Sterne's friend, who had not, 
however, sufficient influence to prevent the suc- 
cess of his adversary. At this time Sterne's 
satirical pen operated so strongly, that the in- 
tended monopolizer informed him, if he would 
suppress the publication of his sarcasm, he 
would resign his pretensions to the next candi- 
date. 

The title of this piece, it appears, was to have 
been, " The history of a good warm Watch- 



301 

Coat, with which the present possessor is not 
content to cover his own shoulders, unless he can 
cut out of it a petticoat for his wife, and a pair 
of breeches for his son,"* 

A LETTER FROM MR. STERNE TO ****. 

IN my last, for want of something better 
to write about, I told you what a world of 'fend- 
ing and proving we have had of late, in this little 
villagef of ours, about an old pair of black plush 
breeches, which John^\ our parish clerk, about 
ten years ago, it seems, had made a promise of to 
one Trim,§ who is our sexton and dog-whipper. — 
To this you write me word, that you have had 
more than either one or two occasions to know a 
good deal of the shifty behaviour of the said Mas- 
ter Trim — and that you are astonished, nor can 
you for your soul conceive, how so worthless a 
fellow, and so worthless a thing into the bargain, 
could become the occasion of so much racket as I 
have represented. — 

Now, though you do not say expressly, you 
could wish to hear any more about it, yet I see 
plainly enough I have raised your curiosity ; and 
therefore, from the same motive that I slightly 
mentioned it at all in my last letter, I will in this 
give you a full and very circumstantial account of 
the whole affair. 

* It was written in a letter to a friend, 

f York. 

\ Dr. Fount — n, Dean of York, 

§ Dr. T-ph-m. 

Bb 



302 

But, before I begin, 1 must first set you right 
in one very material point, in which I have misled 
you, as to the true cause of all this uproar amongst 
us — which does not take its rise, as I then told 
you, from the affair of the breeches, but, on the 
contrary, the whole affair of the breeches has 
taken its rise from it. - — To understand which 
you must know, that the first beginning of the 
squabble was not between John the parish clerk 
and Trim the sexton, but betwixt the parson* of 
the parish and the said Master Trim, about an old 
watch-coat that had hung up many years in the 
church, which Trim had set his heart upon ; and 
nothing would serve Trim but he must take it 
home in order to have it converted into a 'warm 
under -petticoat for his wife, and a jerkin for himself 
against winter ; which, in a plaintive tone, he most 
humbly begged his reverence would consent to. 

I need not tell you, Sir, who have so often felt 
it, that a principle of strong compassion transports 
a generous mind sometimes beyond what is strictly 
right ; — the parson was within an ace of being an 

honourable example of this very crime for no 

sooner did the distinct words — Petticoat — poor 
wife — warm— winter, strike upon the ear — but 
his heart warmed-— and before Trim had well got 
to the end of his petition (being a gentleman of 
a frank open temper) he told him he was welcome 

to it with all his heart and soul. -But Trim, 

says he, as you see I am but just got down to my 
living, and am an utter stranger to all parish mat- 

* Abp.H- 



303 

ters, knowing nothing about this old watch-coat 
you beg of me, having never seen it in my life, 
and therefore cannot be a judge whether 'tis fit 
for such a purpose ; or, if it is, in truth know 
not whether 'tis mine to bestow upon you or not 
■ — you must have a week or ten day's patience, 
till I can make some inquiries about it — and, if I 
find it is in my power, I tell you again, man, your 
wife is heartily welcome to an under-petticoat out 
of it, and you to a jerkin, were the thing as good 
again as you represent it. 

It is necessary to inform you, Sir, in this place, 
that the parson was earnestly bent to serve Trim 
in this affair, not only from the motive of gener- 
osity, which I have justly ascribed to him, but 
likewise from another motive, and that was, by 
making some sort of recompense for a multitude 
of small services which Trim had occasionally done, 
and indeed was continually doing (as he was 
much about the house) when his own man was 
out of the way. — For all these reasons together, 
I say, the parson of the parish intended to serve 
Trim in this matter to the utmost of his power. 
All that was wanting, w 7 as previously to inquire if 
any one had a claim to it, or whether as it had, 
time immemorial, hung up in the church, the tak- 
ing it down might raise a clamour in the parish. 
These inquiries were the things that Trim dreaded 

in his heart he knew very well, that, if the 

parson should but say one word to the church- 
wardens about it, there would be an end of the 
whole affair. For this and some other reasons not 
necessary to be told you at present, Trim was for 



304 

allowing no time in this matter but, on the 

contrary, doubled his diligence and importunity at 
the vicarage -house — plagued the whole family to 
death— pressed his suit, morning, noon, and night, 
and, to shorten my story, teazed the poor gentle- 
man, who was but in an ill state of health, almost 
out of his life about it. 

You will not wonder when I tell you, that all 
this hurry and precipitation, on the side of Master 
Trim 9 produced its natural effect on the side of 
the parson, and that was, a suspicion that all was 
not right at the bottom. 

He was one evening sitting alone in his study, 
weighing and turning this doubt every way in his 
mind ; and after an hour and a half's serious de- 
liberation upon the affair, and running over Trim's 
behaviour throughout — — he was just saying to 

himself — it must be so — when a sudden rap at 

the door put an end to his soliloquy, and in a few 
minutes to his doubts too ; for a labourer in the 
town, who deemed himself past his fifty-second 
year, had been returned by the constables in the 
militia list — and he had come with a groat in his 
hand to search the parish register for his age. 
The parson bid the poor fellow put the groat into 
his pocket, and go into the kitchen — then shut- 
ting the study door, and taking down the parish 

register who knows, says he, bat I may jind 

something here about this self- — same watch-coat P 
He had scarce unclasped the book, in saying this, 
when he popped on the very thing he wanted, 
fairly wrote in the first page, pasted to the inside 
of one of the covers, whereon was a memorandum 



305 

about the very thing in question, in these express 
words Memorandum H The great watch- 
coat was purchased and given about two hundred 
years ago, by the lord of the manor, to the par- 
ish church, to the sole use and behoof of the 
poor sexton thereof, and their successors for ever, 
to be worn by them respectively in winterly cold 
nights, in ringing complines, passing-bells, &c. which 
the said lord of the manor had done in piety to 
keep the poor wretches warm, and for the good 
of his own soul, for which they were directed to 
pray, &c." Just Heaven ! said the parson to 
himself, looking upwards, what an escape have I 
had P Give this for an under -petticoat to Trim'j 
wife ! I would not have consented to such a desecra- 
tion to the primate of all England — nay, I would 
not have disturbed a single button of it for all my tithes* 

Scarce were the words out of his mouth, when 
in pops Trim with the whole subject of the ex- 
clamatior! under both his arms — I say under both 
his arms — for he had actually got it ript and cut 
cut ready, his own jerkin under one arm and the 
petticoat under the other, in order to carry to the 
tailor to be made up, and had just stepped in, in 
high spirits, to show the parson how cleverly it 
had held out. 

There are now many good similies subsisting in 
the world, but which I have neither time to re- 
collect or look for, which would give you a strong 
conception of the astonishment and honest indig- 
nation, which this unexpected stroke of Trim's 
impudence impressed upon the parson's looks — 
let it suffice to say, that it exceeded all fair de- 
Bb2 



306 

acription— as well as all power of proper resent- 
ment-— except this, that Trim was ordered, in a 
stern voice, to lay the bundles down upon the ta- 
ble — to go about his business, and wait upon him 
at his peril, the next morning at eleven precisely. 
— Against this hour, like a wise man, the parson 
had sent to desire John, the parish clerk, who 
bore an exceeding good character as a man of 
truth, and who^ having moreover a pretty freehold 
of about eighteen pounds a year in the township, 
was a leading man in it ; and upon the whole, 
was such a one, of whom it might be said % that 
he rather did honour to his office than his office 
did honour to him — him he sends for, with the 
church-wardens, and one of the sidesmen, a grave 
knowing old man, to be present — for, as Trim had 
with-held the whole truth from the parson touch- 
ing the watch-coat, he thought it probable he 
would as certainly do the same thing to others. 
Though this, I said, was wise, the trouble of the 
precaution might have been spared — because the 
parson's character was unblemished — and he had 
ever been held by the world in the estimation of a 
man of honour and integrity. — Trim's character, 
on the contrary, was as well known, if not in the 
world, at least in all the parish, to be that of a 
little, dirty, pimping, petty-fogging, ambidextrous 
fellow- — who neither cared what he did or said of 
any, provided he could get a penny by it. This 
might, I said, have made any precaution needless 

but you must know, as the parson had in a 

manner but just got down to his living, he dreaded 
the consequences of the least ill impression on his 



307 

first entrance among his parishioners, which would 
have disabled him from doing the good he wished 

so that out of regard to his flock, more than 

the necessary care due to himself, he was resolved 
not to lie at the mercy of what resentment might 
vent, or malice lend an ear to. 

Accordingly the whole matter was rehearsed, 
from first to last, by the parson, in the manner 
I've told you,- in the hearing of John, the parish 
clerk, and in the presence of Trim. 

Trim had little to say for himself, except " that 
the parson had absolutely promised to befriend 
him and his wife in the affair to the utmost of his 
power ; that the watch-coat was certainly in his 
power, and that he might still give it him if he 
pleased," 

To this the parson's reply was short but strong, 
" That nothing was in his power to do but what 
he could do honestly — that in giving the coat to 
him and his wife, he should do a manifest wrong 
to the next sexton, the great watch-coat being the 
most comfortable part of the place — that he 
should moreover injure the right of his own suc- 
cessor, who would be just so much a worse patron 
as the worth of the coat amounted to ; and in a 
word, he declared, that his whole intent in prom- 
ising that coat was charity to Trim, but wrong to 
no man — that was a reserve, he said, made in all 
cases of this kind : and he declared solemnly, in 
<verho sacerdotis, that this was his meaning, and 
was so understood by Trim himself." 

With the weight of this truth, and the great 
good sense and strong reason which accompanied 



303 

all the parson said on the subject—poor Trim was 
driven to the last shift — and begged he might be 
suffered to plead his right and title to the watch- 
coat, if not by promise, at least by servitude — it 
was well known how much he was intitled to it 
upon these scores : that he had black'd the par- 
son's shoes without count, and greased his boots 
above fifty times — that he had run for eggs in 

the town upon all occasions whetted the 

knives at all hours— catched his horse, and rubbed 
him down — that, for his wife, she had been ready 
upon all occasions to char for them ; and neither 
he nor she, to the best of his remembrance, ever 
took a farthing, or any thing beyond a mug of 
ale.— To this account of his services he begged 
leave still to add those of his wishes, which, he 

said, had been equally great he affirmed and 

was ready, he said, to make it appear, by a num- 
ber of witnesses, he had drank his reverence's 
health a thousand times (by the bye he did not 
add, out of the parson's own ale) — that he had 
not only drank his health, but wished it, and never 
came to the house but he asked his man kindly 
how he did ; that in particular, about half a year 
ago, when his reverence cut his finger in paring 
an apple, he went half a mile to ask a cunning 
woman what was good to staunch blood, and actu- 
ally returned with a cobweb in his breeches-pock- 
et. Nay, says Trim, it was not a fortnight ago, 
when your reverence took that strong purge, that 
I went to the far end of the whole town to borrow 
you a close-stool — and came back, as the neigh- 
bours, who flouted me, will bear witness, with the 



309 

pan upon my head, and never thought it too 
much." Trim concluded his pathetic remon- 
strance with saying, " he hoped his reverence's 
heart would not suffer him to requite so many 
faithful services by so unkind a return : — that if 
it was so, he was the first, so he hoped he should 
be the last example of a man of his condition so 
treated." This plan of Trim's defence, which 
Trim had put himself upon, could admit of no oth- 
er reply than a general smile. — Upon the whole 
let me inform you, that all that could be said pro 
and con, on both sides, being fairly heard, it was 
plain that Trim in every part of this affair had be- 
haved very ill — and one thing, which was never 
expected to be known of him, happened in the 
course of this debate to come out against him, 
namely, that he had gone and told the parson, be- 
fore he had ever set foot in the parish, that John, 
his parish-clerk — his church-wardens, and some of 
the heads of the parish, were a parcel of scoun- 
drels. Upon the upshot, Trim was kick'd out of 
doors, and told at his peril never to come there again. 
At first, Trim huff 'd and bounced most terribly 
— swore he would get a warrant — that nothing 
would serve him but he would call a bye-law, and 
tell the whole parish how the parson had misused 
him : but cooling of that, as fearing the parson 
might possibly bind him over to his good behav- 
iour, and, for aught he knew, might send him to 
the house of correction, he lets the parson alone, 
and to revenge himself, falls upon the poor clerk, 
who had no more to do in the quarrel than you or 
I — rips up the promise of the old- — cast — pair of 



310 

black — plush — breeches ; and raises an uproar in 
the town about it, notwithstanding it had slept 
ten years — but all this, you must know, is looked 
upon in no other light but as an artful stroke of 
generalship in Trim to raise a dust, and cover him- 
self under the disgraceful chastisement he has un- 
dergone. 

If your curiosity is not yet satisfied — I will now 
proceed to relate the battle of the breeches in the 
same manner I have done that of the watch-coat. — 

Be it known then, that about ten years ago,- 
when John was appointed parish-clerk of this 
church, this said Trim took no small pains to get 
into John's good graces, in order, as it afterwards 
appeared, to coax a promise out of him of a pair 
of breeches, which John had then by him, of black 
plush, not much the worse for wearing — Trim 
only begged, for God's sake, to have them bestow- 
ed upon him when John should think fit to cast 
them 

Trim was one of those kind of men who loved a 
bit of finery in his heart, and would rather have a 
tatter'd rag of another body's, than the best plain 
whole thing his wife could spin him. 

John, who was naturally unsuspicious, made no 
more difficulty in promising the breeches, than 
the parson had done in promising the great coat ; 
and indeed with something less reserve — because 
the breeches were John's own, and he could give 
them, without wrong, to whom he thought fit. 

It happened, I was going to say unluckily, for 
Trim, for he was the only gainer by it, that a 
quarrel, about some six or eight weeks after this, 



311 

broke out betwisiW^^Azte parson of the parish and 
John the clerk. — Somebody (and it was thought 
to be nobody but Trim) had put it into the par- 
son's head, that John's desk in the church was at 
least four inches higher than it should be — that 
the thing gave offence, and was indecorous, inas- 
much as it approached too near upon a level with 
the parson's desk itself. — This hardship the par- 
son complained of loudly, and told John, one day 
after prayers, " he could bear it no longer — and 
would have it altered, and brought down as it 
should be." John made no other reply, but "that 
the desk was not of his raising : — that 'twas not 
one hair breadth higher than he found it — and 
that as he found it so he would leave it. — In short, 
he would neither make an encroachment, neither 
would he sufFer one." The % late parson might 
have his virtues, but the leading part of his charac- 
ter was not humility — so that John's stiffness in 
this point was not likely to reconcile matters. — 
This was Trim's harvest. 

After a friendly hint to John to stand his ground, 
away hies Trim to make his market at the vicar- 
age. — What passed there I will not say, intending 
not to be uncharitable ; so shall content myself 
with only guessing at it from the sudden change 
that appeared in Trim's dress for the better — for 
he had left his old ragged coat, hat, and wig, in 
the stable, and was come forth strutting across the 
church-yard, clad in a good charitable cast coat, 
large hat and wig, which the parson had just 

Abp. H-^rr~ g\ 



312 

given him. — Ho ! ho ! hollo ! John, cries Trim, 
in an insolent bravo, as loud as he could bawl — 
see here, my lad, how fine I am ! — the more shame 
for you, answered John seriously — Do you think, 
Trim, says he, such finery, gained by such services, 
becomes you, or can wear well ?— - — Fie upon 
it, Trim ! I could not have expected this from 
you, considering what friendship you pretended, 
and how kind I have ever been to you — how many 
shillings and sixpences I have generously lent you 
in your distresses. — Nay, it was but the other day 
that I promised you those black plush breeches I 
have on. — Rot your breeches, quoth Trim, (for 
Trim's brain was half turned with his new finery) 
rot your breeches, says he — I would not take them 
up were they laid at my door — give them, and be 

d d to you, to whom you like — I would have 

you to know I can have a better pair of the par- 
son's any day in the week. — -John told him plain- 
ly, as his word had once passed him, he had ai 
spirit above taking advantage of his insolence in 
giving them away to another—but, to tell him his 
mind freely, he thought he had got so many fa- 
vours of that kind, and was so likely to get many 
more for the same services, of the parson, that he 
had better give up the breeches, with good-na- 
ture, to some one who would be more thankful for 
them. 

Here John mentioned % Mark Slender (who it 
seems, the day before had asked John for them) 
not knowing they were under promise to Trim- — 

* Dr. Braith- 1. 



313 

€ * Come, Trim, 39 says he, let poor Mark have them 
— you know he has not a pair to his a — : besides, 
you see he is just of my size, and they will fit to 
a T ; whereas if I give 'em to you, look ye they 
are not worth much ; and besides, you could not 
get your backside into them, if you had them ; 
without tearing them all to pieces." — Every tittle 
of this was most undoubtedly true, for Trim, you 
must know, by foul feeding, and playing the good 
fellow at the parson's, was grown somewhat gross 
about the lower parts, if not higher ; so that, as all 
John said upon the occasion was fact, Trim with 
much ado, and after a hundred hums and hahs, at 
last, out of mere compassion to Mark, signs, seals, 
and delivers up ALL RIGHT, interest, and 

PRETENSIONS WHATSOEVER, IN, AND TO THE 
SAID BREECHES, THEREBY BINDING HIS HEIRS, 
EXECUTORS, ADMINISTRATORS AND ASSIGNS, 
NEVER MORE TO CALL THE SAID CLAIM IN 

QUESTION.— All this renunciation was set 
forth, in an ample manner to be in pure pity to 
Mark's nakedness — but the secret was, Trim had 
an eye to, and firmly expected, in his own mind, 
the great green pulpit cloth, and old velvet cushion, 
which were that very year to be taken down — 
which, by the bye, could he have wheedled John 
a second time, as he had hoped, would have made 
up the loss of the breeches seven-fold. 

Now, you must know, this pulpit-cloth and 
cushion were not in John's gift, but in the church- 
wardens, &c. However, as I said above, that 
John was a leading man in the parish, Trim knew 
he could help him to 'era if he would — but John 
C c 



had got a surfeit of him — so, when the pulpit- 
cloth, &c. were taken down, they were immedi- 
ately given [John having a great say in it) to 
* William Doe, who understood very well what use 
to make of them. 

As for the old breeches, poor Mark lived to 
wear them but a short time, and they got into the 
possession of f Lorry Slim, an unlucky wight, by 
whom they are still worn — in truth, as you will 
guess, they are very thin by this time. 

But Lorry has a light heart, and what recom- 
mends them to him is this, that, as thin as they 
are, he knows that Trim, let him say what he will 
to the contrary, still envies the possessor of them, 
and with all his pride would be very glad to wear 
them after him. 

Upon this footing have these affairs slept quiet- 
ly for near ten years — and would have slept for 
ever, but for the unlucky kicking bout, which, as 
I said, has ripped this squabble up afresh ; so that 
_it was no longer ago than last week, that Trim 
met and insulted John, in the public town-way be- 
fore a hundred people — tax'd him with the prom- 
ise of the old cast pair of black breeches, not- 
withstanding Trim's solemn renunciation — twitted 
him with the pulpit-cloth and velvet cushion — as 
good as told him he was ignorant of the common 
duties of his clerkship ; adding, very insolently, 
that he knew not so much as to give out a com- 
mon psalm in tune. 

* Mr. Birdm— re. 
f Laurence Sterne. 



315 

John contented himself by giving a plain answer 
to every article that Trim had laid to his charge, 
and appealed to his neighbours, who remembered 
the whole affair — and, as he knew there was never 
any thing to be got by wrestling with a chimney- 
sweeper, he was going to take his leave of Trim 
for ever. But hold— the mob by this time had 
got round them, and their high mightinesses in- 
sisted upon having Trim tried upon the spot. 

Trim was accordingly tried, and after a full 
hearing, was convicted a second time, and handled 
more roughly by one or more of them, than even 
at the parson's. 

Trim, says one, are you not ashamed of yourself, 
to make all this rout and disturbance in the town, 
and set neighbours together by the ears, about an 
old — worn — out — pair of cast — breeches, not 
worth half a crown ? Is there a cast coat, or a 
place in the whole town, that will bring you in 
a shilling, but what you have snapped up, like a 
greedy hound as you are ? 

In the first place, are you not sexton and dog- 
whipper, worth three pounds a year ? « Then you 
begged the church-wardens to let your 'wife have 
the washing and darning of the church-linen, 
which brings you in thirteen shillings arid four- 
pence ; then you have six shillings and eight- 
pence for oiling and winding-up the clock, both 
paid you at Easter — the pounder's place, which is 
worth forty shillings a year, you have got that 
too — you are the bailiff, which the late parson got 
you, which brings you in forty shillings more. 



316 

Besides all this, you have six pounds a year, 
paid you quarterly, for being mole-catcher to the 
parish. — Aye, says the luckless wight above-men- 
tioned (who was standing close by him with the 
plush breeches on) "you are not only mole-catcher, 
Trim, but you catch STRJT CONIES too in the 
dark, and you pretend a licence for it, which, I 
trow, will be looked into at the next quarter ses- 
sions." I maintain it, I have a licence, says Trim, 
blushing as red as scarlet — I have a licence, and, 
as I farm a warren in the next parish, I will catch 
conies every hour of the night. Tou catch conies ! 
says a toothless old woman just passing by. 

This set the mob a laughing, and sent every 
man home in perfect good humour, except Trim, 
who waddled very slowly off with that kind of in- 
flexible gravity only to be equalled by one animal 

in the creation, and surpassed by none. 1 am, 

Sir, yours, &c. &c 

POSTSCRIPT. 

I have broke open my letter to inform you, 
that I missed the opportunity of sending it by the 
messenger,, who I expected would have called up- 
on me in His return through this village to York ; 
so it has lain a week or ten days by me — I am not 
sorry for the disappointment, because something 
has since happened, in continuation of this affair, 
which I am thereby enabled to transmit to you all 
under one trouble. 

When I finished the above account, I thought 
(as did every soul in the parish) Trim had met 
with so thorough a rebuff from John the parish 



317 

clerk, and the townsfolks, who all took against 
him, that Trim would be glad, to be quiet, and let 
the matter rest. 

But, it seems, it is not half an hour ago since 
. Trim sailed forth again, and, having borrowed a 
sowgelder's horn, with hard blowing he got the 
whole town round him, and endeavoured to raise a 
disturbance, and fight the whole battle over again 
— alledged that he had been used in the last fray- 
worse than a dog, not by John the parish clerk, for 
he should not, quoth Trim, have valued him a rush 
single hands — but all the town sided with him, and 
twelve men in buckram set upon me, all at once, 
and kept me in play at sword's point for three 
hours together. 

Besides, quoth Trim, there were two misbegot- 
ten knaves in Kendal green, who lay all the while 
in ambush in John's own house, and they all six- 
teen came upon my back, and let drive at me all 
together — a plague, says Trim, of all cowards. 

Trim repeated this story above a dozen times, 
which made some of the neighbours pity him, 
thinking the poor fellow crack-brained, and that 
he actually believed what he said. 

After this, Trim dropped the affair of the 
breeches, and began a fresh dispute about the read- 
ing-desk, which I told you had occasioned some 
small dispute between the late parson and John 
some years ago. — This reading-desk, as you will 
observe, was but an episode woven into the main 
story by the bye, for the main affair was the battk 
of the breeches and the great coat. 
Cc2 



318 

However, Trim being at last driven out of these 
two citadels — he has seized hold, in his retreat, of 
this reading-desk, with a view, as it seems, to take 
shelter behind it. 

I cannot say but the man has fought it out ob- 
stinately enough, and, had his cause been good, I 
should have really pitied him. For, when he was 
driven out of the great <watch-coat, you see he did 
not run away ; no — he retreated behind the 
breeches ; and, when he could make nothing of 
it behind the breeches, he got behind the reading- 
desk. To what other hold Trim will next retreat, 
the politicians of this village are not agreed. Some 
think his next move will be towards the rear of 
the parson's boot ; but, as it is thought he cannot 
make a long stand there, others are of opinion, 
that Trim will once more in his life get hold of the 
parson's horse, and charge upon him, or perhaps 
behind him : but as the horse is not easy to be 
caught, the more general opinion is, that, when 
he is driven out of the reading-desk, he will make 
his last retreat in such a manner, as, if possible, to 
gain the close-stool, and defend himself behind it 
to the very last drop. 

If Trim should make this movement, by my ad- 
vice he should be left beside his citadel, in full 
possession of the field of battle, where 'tis certain 
he will keep every body a league off, and may hop 
by himself till he is weary. Besides, as Trim 
seems bent on purging himself, and may have abun- 
dance of foul humours to work off, I think it can- 
not be better placed. 



S19 

But this is all speculation — Let me cany you 
back to matter of fact, and tell you what kind of 
stand Trim has actually made behind the said desk : 
" Neighbours and townsmen all, I will be sworn 
before my lord mayor, that John and his nineteen, 
men in buckram have abused me worse than a dog ; 
for they told you I play'd fast and go loose with 
the late parson and him, in that old dispute of theirs 
about the reading-desk, and that I made matters 
worse between them, and not better." 

Of this charge Trim declared he was as innocent 
as the child that was unborn — that he would be 
book-sworn he had no hand in it. 

He produced a strong witness, and moreover 
insinuated, that John himself, instead of being an- 
gry for what he had done in it, had actually thank- 
ed him — Aye, Trim, says the wight in the plush 
breeches, but that was, Trim, the day before John 
found thee out. Besides, Trim, there is nothing 
in that, for the very year that you was made town's 
pounder, thou knowest well that I both thanked 
thee myself, and moreover gave thee a good warm 
supper for turning John Lund's cows and horses 
out of my hard corn close, which if thou hadst not 
done, (as thou toldst me) I should have lost my 
whole crop ; whereas John Lund and Thomas Patt, 
who are both here to testify, and are both willing 
to take their oaths on't, that thou thyself wert 
the very man who set the gate open — and after 
all, it was not thee, Trim, 'twas the blacksmith's 
poor lad who turned them out — so that a man 
may be thanked and rewarded too, for a good turn 
which he never did, nor ever did intend. 



320 

Trim could not sustain this unexpected stroke — 
so Trim marched off the field without colours fly- 
ing, or his horn sounding, or any other ensigns of 
honour whatever — Whether after this Trim intends 
to rally a second time — or whether he may not 
take it into his head to claim the victory — none 
but Trim himself can inform you. 

However, the general opinion upon the whole 
is this, that, in three several pitch' d battles, Trim 
has been so trimm'd as never disastrous hero was 
trimm'd before. 



THE END. 



INDEX. 



A 

THE Ass - - - 60 

The dead Ass - - 132 
Humouring immoral 

Appetites - - - 134 

Tribute of Affection 161 

The Address - - - 250 

B 

Remainder of the Story 

of Trim's Brother - 83 

The Beguine - - - 87 

'Beauty 209 

C 
The Abuses of Con- 
science - - - - 62 
Consolation - - - 141 
The Captive - - - 143 
Charity - - - - 147 
Crosses in Life - - 168 
The Contrast - - 169 
Trim's Explanation of 
the fifth Command- 
ment - - - - 178 
Covetousness - - - 196 
Contentment - - 215 
Curiosity - - - - 233 
Contumely - - - 239 
Criticism - - - - 247 
The Conquest - - 261 
The Charity - - - 263 



D 

The Dwarf - - - 145 
Reflections on Death - 150 
Defamation - - "190 
Dissatisfaction - - 194 

Death 195 

Distress - - - - 211 
The Dance - - - - 216 
Corporal Trim's Reflec- 
tions on death - - 221 



Ejaculation - - - 177 
Epitaph on a Lady - 249 
The Case of Elijah and 
the Widow of Zare- 
phath considered - 270 

Evils 216 

Eloquence - - - - 191 
Enmity - - - - 231 



Fellow-feeling *- - 124 

Frailty 130 

Feeling and Beneficence 152 

Flattery - - - - 180 

Forgiveness - - - 180 

Favours - - - - 180 

Rustic Felicity - - 181 

Fille de Chambre - 235 



322 



The Grace - - - 112 
Yorick's Opinion of 

Gravity - - - 175 

Ostentatious Generosity 1 85 

Generosity - - - 191 

H 
The Hobby-Horse - 96 
The Parson's Horse - 105 
Happiness - - - 158 
Yorick's Death a brok- 
en Heart - - - 162 

Health 179 

Affected Honesty - 184 
Corporal Trim's Defi- 
nition of radical Heat 

and Moisture - - 192 

Humility - - - - 197 
Humility contrasted 

with Pride - - - 198 

Hunger - - - - 210 

I 
Illusion - - - - 113 
Insensibility - - - 131 
Indolence - - - - 140 
Forgiveness of Injuries 158 
Inhumanity - - - 251 
Power of slight Inci- 
dents - - - - 168 
The Interruption - 175 
Imposture - - - 214 

Injury 234 

Insolence - - - - 234 
Captain Shandy's Justi- 
fication, &c. - - 136 
Mr. Shandy's Bed of 

Justice - - - - 204 

Judgment of the World 252 



Justice ----- 253 
Justice and Honesty 256 



Letters ----- 17 

The Story of Le Fevre 34 

Le Dimanche - - - 114 
• Mr. Shandy's Letter to 

his Brother on Love 211 

M x 

Maria ----- 98 

The Monk - - - 117 

The Merciful Man - 125 

House of Mourning 127 

Mercy 139 

Reflection upon Man 177 
Life of Man - - - 178 
Difference in Men - 182 
Misfortune and Conso- 
lation - - - - 266 

O 

Opposition - - - 135 
Pleasures of Observa- 
tion and Study - 151 
Oppression vanquished 156 
Against hasty Opinion 183 
Opinion - - - - 190 
Rooted Opinion not 

easily eradicated - 195 

Oppression - - - 219 

Charity to Orphans - 245 



The Ways of Provi- 
dence justified to 
Man - - - - 289 

The Preceptor - - 32 
The Pulse - - - 48 



323 



The Pie-Man - - - 55 

Pity 126 

Affected Piety - - 184 

Patience and Content 198 

Pride 200 



254 



Bad Effects of Quack- 
ery - - - - - 

R 
Religion - - - - 191 
Mr. Shandy's Resigna- 
tion for the Loss of 
his Son - - - 226 
Death-bed Repentance 249 
Application of Riches 262 
Reason - - - - 263 



The Sword - - - 51 

Sensibility - - - - 109 

The Supper - - - 110 

Slander - - - - 126 

The Starling - - - 141 

Slavery - - - - 154 
Dr. Slop and Obadiah 

meeting - - - 171 
Selfishness and Mean- 
ness 173 

Solitude - - - - 179 



Affected Sanctity - 185 
Society - - - - 193 
Sorrow and Heaviness 

of Heart - - - 191 
Sorrow - - - 195 

Simplicity - - - 196 
Shame and Disgrace - 232 
Seduction - - - - 240 
Slander - - - - 241 
Dr. Slop and Susannah 244 
Suicide - - - - 253 
Regulation of Spirit - 255 



The Translation 
The Temptation 



U 



Uncertainty 
Unity - - 



- 228 

- 257 



131 
135 



Vice not without use 174 

Vanity - - - - - 184 

Virtue and Vice - - 219 

W 

Writing - - - 17 

Wit and Judgment - 186 

Wisdom - - - - 210 

The Watch-Coat - - 803 



LEJl' 



